Of Archery and Stuff
by Draken XIII
Summary: Imagine being transported into Middle Earth only to end up in an unfashionable backwater... and with a World War Two fighter pilot for company. Just how do you fit into the bigger picture? Do you fit in at all?
1. Chapter 1: Of Archery

Of Archery and Stuff  
  
I drew back the long bow slowly, smoothly. I felt the tension build in the bowstring, the smooth slide of the arrow shaft over my left thumb. Back I drew the string until it kissed my lips. I could feel the power harnessed in it. My left arm steady, I took aim at the tree trunk some fifty yards hence. With the slightest movement of the fingers of my right hand I let the string slip from my fingers. With a whistling rush the arrow arced away and slammed with a deep thud into the tree. Well, into A tree. A tree some way to the right of the one I'd aimed at.  
  
"Sod it!" I shouted, throwing the bow down. "Bloody thing must be bent."  
  
"Hmmm." A dapper figure clad in russet brown looked up from a set of parchments. "Bad luck old chap. You're getting better though. Keep at it, eh?"  
  
I glowered first at him and then the bow.  
  
"Just my luck," I muttered under my breath. But loudly enough, obviously.  
  
"What's just your luck, old bean?"  
  
I sighed. "Nothing, Jacko, nothing...well...it's just you read about this sort of thing all the time. Swirling magical vortex opens up, you step through it and wham you're in Middle Earth."  
  
Jacko nodded. "Same here, though of course in my case I didn't so much step as dive through in the bird." He looked across, as he often did, at the crashed Spitfire up on the outcrop. "So...why just your luck, hmm?"  
  
"Well the idea is you end up Minas Tirith or Rivendell or Edoras. If you're a girl you get to shag Legolas, if you're a bloke you screw Arwen."  
  
"Ah." Jacko put on his wordly wise look, which was always irritating. "And here you are stuck in the Misty Mountains with some chap from your own history books."  
  
I managed a weak smile. "It's not you. It's just being so far from the action. And knowing I'd be sod all good if there WAS any." I looked disconsolately at the long bow.  
  
Jacko looked back down at his parchments. "It's not all a barrel of laughs for me, old chap. There's a war to win you know, and here I am in some fictional world. Not just that, but a fictional world that hasn't even been published yet, as far as I'm concerned. It all sounds like the plot of some ludicrous story."  
  
We looked at each other uneasily and I cleared my throat. "Anyway...I suppose it's not all dull. Sauron's right hand will be stretching out and all that. This lot will need some help." I nodded at the elves and dwarves arguing more-or-less good naturedly over which trees the dwarves could fell in the woods below their new settlement.  
  
Jacko nodded while thoughtfully stroking his handlebar moustache. "I'll say." He looked up the valley to where the trees gave way to bare grey rock, with fissures and ravines set in deep, menacing shadows. "You say those peaks are crawling with Jerry, hmm?"  
  
"Orcs, Jacko, crawling with orcs. Not Germans."  
  
"Ah," he commented, not looking convinced. "Either way, these chaps really should move out from here. Sitting ducks, you know." He looked warily at the peaks above us. "Never give the enemy the advantage of height."  
  
I shrugged. "This woodland is sacred to the elves. Those really big trees in the middle are mallorns, the northernmost stand of them, they won't abandon them. The dwarves have set their minds on re-opening that old garrison of theirs from the Orc Wars and they're a stubborn bunch."  
  
Jacko looked unimpressed by the logic. "And you found that from all those meetings you've been having with them?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Bloody good job they speak English, what?"  
  
"Yes, well never mind that. The fact remains we're not that far from the Moria gate and there's a zillion orcs in there. If even a fraction of them head this way we're right in it. We need to figure how to stop them, or survive, or both. Now you're in the RAF and I once won a game of Diplomacy, we MUST be able to figure a decent strategy between us."  
  
Yet again he looked wistfully at the pranged Spitfire. "If I could get the Spit in the air again I dare say that would help."  
  
I sighed. "We've been through this before, mate. Even if we could fix her there's no aviation spirit in Middle Earth." I looked again at the plane. "Uh Jacko, where's the undercarriage?"  
  
"What? Oh I lent it to the dwarves, they want to tinker. You're right about the aviation spirit of course old chap. But the guns are fully functional and there's quite a bit of ammo left...."  
  
We were interrupted by the ending of the council in the nearby clearing. The leaders of the two groups came over to us, their manner, as ever, cool in each other's presence. Eredorn, the captain of the elves, gestured me to one side while Norri, the leader of the dwarves, made for Jacko. "Pilot Officer Jackson," he rumbled. "Tell me more about the thunder sticks of which you spoke."  
  
"Thunder sticks old bean? I rather think you mean Hispano-Suiza 20mm cannon...."  
  
We left them to it. "A good council?" I asked Eredorn. "It seemed amicable enough from here."  
  
The elf smiled slightly. "Amicable enough. We have agreed that they may thin the woods on the upper slopes. It will aid the stronger trees there. And well we know they will need fuel for their forges – I fear we will soon be needing all the dwarven steel we can find."  
  
I knew he wanted to say more. "What is it Eredorn?"  
  
"Our allies had a skirmish with a party of orcs last night. Just over there, by that stand of cedar."  
  
"They've never ventured that far before," I commented.  
  
"They test our defences. I fear they will attack in earnest soon." The elven warrior frowned. "And our friends refuse to join us further down the valley."  
  
I nodded. "No need to tell me. I've tried with Norri as much as you have. All I get is: these are the halls of our fathers and we shall not lightly abandon them again, no orcs shall ever pass our entrance gate... etcetera, etcetera."  
  
Eredorn sighed. "I don't doubt it. However, the orcs don't need to pass their gates. They can simply bottle Norri within his halls and move on to assault us."  
  
I looked down at the two cabins Jacko and I had made on the edge of the woodland, facing the valley that wound steeply down from the mountains. Well I say cabins, more like huts. Well, I say huts, more like bits of wood held together with rope. "Don't worry Eredorn," I grinned. "We'll hold 'em back from Fort Matchwood there."  
  
Eredorn permitted himself a smile. "Jesting apart, you and Pilot Officer Jackson are two extra swords. You should join my people in the woods. Your...erm...dwellings are too far from both ourselves and the dwarves."  
  
"Hey, I'm not overly attached to that leaky hovel. I can't speak for Jacko, but that sounds a good idea."  
  


* * *

  
Jacko hummed and hawed about accepting the elves' offer. He was perched on the starboard wing of the Spitfire, his much-scribbled-upon parchments strewn around him. He had borrowed some chisels from the dwarves and had used them to prise a couple of the aluminium panels from the top of the wing. He didn't seem too interested in moving house, so I pressed him on the matter, to his evident irritation.  
  
"Listen old chap, feel free to taking lodgings where you will. I just don't like leaving the Spit." I glowered at the aircraft. "Look Jacko nobody loves antique British warplanes more than me. I mean I'm a 'Friend of the Canberra B(I)8' in a museum somewhere. But you're being far too sentimental...."  
  
"Am I indeed?" retorted Jacko indignantly. "Listen, old chap, you may well have colour disc players and compact television and all those other things you talk about, but I know a thing or two myself, thank you very much. I'm very happy in my hut and I'm not abandoning the Spit to the Hun just yet, call me sentimental if you will."  
  
"They are NOT 'huns' they are ORCS!" I snapped.  
  
"To use your own phraseology: WHATEVER!" he stormed, hopping down off the wing, turning on his heel and marching off.  
  
I hated falling out with Jacko. Firstly, he was good company. Secondly, he was the only person in Middle Earth who could play chess or shove ha'penny or conkers. But I've never been good at backing down so I just scowled, packed my meagre belongings and left, if not in a high dudgeon, then certainly in a middle-sized one.  
  


* * *

  
As luck would have it, the attack happened that night. The first I knew about it was being awoken in my new quarters high up in a mallorn tree by a clattering of footsteps and shouting. I jumped up and slipped on my leather jerkin and leggings and snatched up the sword the elves had presented me with before (rather optimistically) slinging my long bow and a quiver-full of arrows over my shoulder.  
  
Still not fully awake I stumbled onto the walkway that spiralled around the tree, the occasional elegant arched footbridge linking it with neighbouring tree dwellings. Those bridges were bustling with elven archers hurrying to and fro. I spotted Eredorn coming along the walkway I was on, speaking urgently with a grim-faced company of his warriors.  
  
"Eredorn, mate, what's happening?" I asked him, trying to buckle on my sword belt. "And do you have one of these in a 34 inch waist? Seems a bit tight...."  
  
"War drums above us!" he replied. "And a dwarven horn sounded out then fell silent. The attack is nigh upon us, and I fear the dwarves' watch posts have been over-run already."  
  
"Bloody hell, Jacko is still sulking in his hut!" I blurted. "We need to help the dwarves and get him out of there!"  
  
Eredorn raised a hand. "My best archers are being assembled and sent to the far edge of the woods, there to offer what help they can. If the Pilot Officer still lives they will find him. But we will offer the dwarves our arrows alone – we are not clad in armour. It is not our way to meet in open battle. Let the orcs venture into our woods and we will slay them, but we will not take the fight into the open."  
  
"Just my luck," I muttered. "Special Forces elves...OK, I'm going with them, Jacko's a mate."  
  
Eredorn nodded. "Very well. Go with Findathil here, and may your arrows fly true."  
  
His lieutenant Findathil gestured me to follow him down the spiralling walkway, brushing past in his haste to descend. As I followed him I heard Eredorn calling after me. "To be on the safe side, could you stand a little way in FRONT of my warriors when you fire that bow?"  
  
The company of archers numbered only a score, if you counted me (which they didn't). As we hastened the half mile or so to the edge of the woods the menacing tattoo of the orc's war drums, the clash of steel and the cries of battle grew louder. The woodland thinned and we drew close to the cabins. The night was clear and after the blackness of the woods the gibbous moon was bright enough to illuminate much of the surrounding landscape. The dwarven stronghold was out of sight around a spur, but a dark mass of figures could be seen at the bend of the river. Many were marching towards us. A couple of worryingly large shapes hulked among them.  
  
"They are moving against us," observed Findathil calmly. "I would suggest you find the Pilot Officer."  
  
I dashed across to the cabins. Or rather cabin. Jacko's hut was still there, but mine had been dismantled and turned into a tiny square stockade. "Cheeky bugger!" I thought as I sprinted over. Jacko himself was standing by the new construction, looking totally impervious to the danger he was putting us both in.  
  
"Ah hello!" he greeted airily. "How's the new billet? Nice night for it, what?"  
  
"Jacko!" I spluttered. "What are you playing at? Get your arse in gear and get back into the woods with me!"  
  
He turned away and calmly pulled aside one of the panels of fencing he had turned my hut into.  
  
"You flap too much, old son. Calm down and give me a hand, could you?"  
  
I clapped one hand to my forehead in frustration. "Are you off your head? Stop faffing and run, NOW!"  
  
Next instant I heard the familiar twang of elven bows and the rush of flights arcing not very far overhead. I glanced back at the woods. "Heck, steady on, lads! What are they shooting at anyway?"  
  
Jacko peered around the stockade and looked faintly concerned. "Erm, at them, I think. Deceptively fast over the ground, aren't they?"  
  
I followed his gaze to see the first wave of orcs no more than 50 yards away. A few fell to the elven arrows, but the rest pressed on undaunted.  
  
"Bloody hell!" I yelled wittily, un-shouldering the long bow.  
  
"Yes, had counted on having a little more time," agreed Jacko. "Be a good chap and hold the Bosch off a minute, would you?"  
  
"Orcs! They're orcs, NOT Germans!" But there was no more time for arguing. I moved into the shadow of the stockade, notched an arrow, aimed and fired. An orc fell...five yards to the left of the one I was aiming at, but hey, they all count. A further volley of elven arrows thinned the attackers' ranks further, but then the survivors were upon us. I threw down the bow and drew my sword.  
  
Findathil's lads were playing a blinder, picking off orcs even as they got within striking range of us. But eventually a snarling orc reached me: I parried its swinging blow and countered, striking its small hand shield. Again it struck, but I dodged back and thrust, catching it on the shoulder. Hissing furiously, its grotesque face twisted with anger, the orc leapt at me...and straight onto a further thrust from my sword.  
  
I heard a noise behind me. Whirling round I saw an orc sneaking behind to try and surprise me. My sword swung around and cut it down. A third orc popped its head around the corner of the stockade – next instant the head lay severed on the ground.  
  
"Hey this is ok!" I shouted to Jacko. "This lot are pants!" Then I looked up. "Oh sh...."  
  
A cave troll stood before me, a gigantic spiked club the size of a hatchback in its hand. Its growl made my insides rattle and I prepared to find out what sort of afterlife Iluvatar had in mind. At that instant the front section of the stockade fell open and there was a brief staccato booming that made my ears ring. Three fist sized-holes appeared in the troll's broad neck, perforating it like a tear-off slip. With a look of bewilderment it shook its head, which promptly fell off with a snapping of tendons. The troll's body, unencumbered now by its brain, turned tail and lumbered away quite adeptly, squashing two orcs flat before realising it was dead and crashing down to the ground.  
  
"Tally ho!" cried Jacko. There was the thudding retort of more heavy calibre ordnance and a cluster of three retreating orcs splattered quite satisfyingly. "Take that you Nazi scoundrels!" shouted Jacko.  
  
"How many times?" I complained. "ORC scoundrels!"  
  
But Jacko was oblivious. He emerged from what remained of the stockade pushing a bulky contraption ahead of him. A stumpy barrel protruded from a jumble of ironmongery mounted on what I recognised as the Spitfire's wheels. Grunting a little with the effort he pushed the device ahead of him like a handcart before setting it down, looking along the barrel and pushing a plunger in. The Spitfire's cannon rattled and roared again.  
  
The orcs and a further troll were fleeing in terror already, but the latter never made the safety of the spur: cannon shells ripped into it, almost cutting it in two. Jacko straightened and took a few deep breaths. "Bit bulky, but does the job eh?"  
  
"I'll say!" I concurred. "Need a hand?"  
  
"Wouldn't say no."  
  
We had hardly wheeled the gun any distance before Findathil and his archers were with us, the rout of the orcs and trolls encouraging them to break cover. "Truly this is great magic!" he marvelled. "Let us use it to aid the our friends up the valley!"  
  
We wheeled the cannon around the spur and up the valley towards where the dwarves were at bay. True to his word, Norri had not let an orc pass his gateway, but massed ranks boiled around the outer defensive wall while trolls battered at the masonry. Word of our 'thunder stick' had spread among the orcs and no counter attack came our way: instead they tried to keep us at range, ranks of archers firing desperately at us. We trundled onto a broad mound, set the cart down and waited, hands over our ears, while Jacko took aim. A few seconds later the remaining orc archers were fleeing the broken remains of their comrades, while Jacko raised the sights and peppered the masses at the dwarf's gateway with cannon shells.  
  
With no further ado the orcs fled shrieking back up the valley. With an exultant cry the elves gave chase, firing arrows off as they ran and downing orcs by the dozen. The dwarves swarmed from their stronghold, battle axes felling orcs like saplings and butchering the one troll that stood its ground.  
  
Jacko and I leant back on the cannon and left them to it. "Why the hell didn't you tell me what you were up to?" I demanded.  
  
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Wasn't sure it would come off. But those dwarf chaps are top notch engineers. Wanted to test it out first but never got the chance. Still, it was alright on the night, eh?"  
  
I nodded, looking into the workings of the cannon. "Much ammo left?"  
  
He shook his head. "Fraid not. The Spit's one failing: not much in the way of shells. Enough for one more scrap like this and that's your lot."  
  
"Ah well," I said. "I don't think the bad guys will be back in hurry."  
  
A gurgling hiss nearby made us jump: I drew my sword as I saw movement behind us. One of the orcs knocked down by the dying troll had survived. I rushed back, sword drawn, and pulled the battered and bewildered creature to its feet.  
  
"Don't try anything, face-ache," I snarled, shoving it ahead of me towards the gun.  
  
Jacko looked at it with some distaste. "Ugly chap, don't you think? Any use to us?"  
  
I kept the tip of my sword a few inches from the orc, motioning it to sit. "Maybe. It might know something."  
  
"Mmm, worth a try," murmured Jacko, stroking his moustache. "Bet he wishes he'd stayed in the Fatherland now, eh?"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "For absolutely that last time, Jacko, this is MIDDLE EARTH. This is NOT World War Two. This is an orc, definitely, DEFINITELY not a German, ok? Now, you!" I kicked the crouching orc. "Are your lot planning any more attacks?"  
  
It looked up at me, incomprehension in its black eyes. "Ich weisse nicht," it grunted. "Sprechen sie Deutsch?" 


	2. Chapter 2: A Royal Visit

Norri scratched his beard while setting his jaw in an appropriately stubborn expression. "I still say we should call it the Battle of the Thunder Stick" he re-iterated.  
  
"But the Pilot Officer has already told us it is a Hispano Suiza 20mm cannon," argued Findathil. "We should use the correct name, surely?"  
  
"We are NOT calling it the Battle of the Hispano Suiza 20mm Cannon, and that is an end to it," interjected Eredorn.  
  
Naming battles, it seemed, was an important business in Middle Earth. The elves in particular wanted something suitably epic or glorious or sorrowful (preferably all three) to sing songs about for the next few millennia. The dwarves weren't all that interested, but the very fact that the elves were so bothered had encouraged Norri to weigh into the argument with a gusto. The council in Eredorn's mallorn tree dwelling had started well enough, with lembas and elven wine, but it was certainly dragging now.  
  
"How about the Battle of Three Armies?" ventured Findathil.  
  
Eredorn scowled. "Hmmm. The Mirkwood Elves will think it was a lesser event than the Battle of Five Armies."  
  
"It WAS a lesser event!" I pointed out. "Three armies? There were less than 20 elves, for a start, and only a hundred or so dwarves. Take away the cannon and it was more like a scrap in a pub car park in Middlesborough than a proper battle."  
  
"I've never seen trolls in Middlesborough," commented a bored-looking Jacko.  
  
"You've obviously never been on the pull there," I countered. "Anyway, how about Battle of the Sudden Flame?"  
  
Eredorn shook his head. "We've already had one of those. But that's more what I had in mind...maybe the Battle of Righteous Thunder?"  
  
"Oh no!" I said emphatically. "Sounds like an American-led invasion of somewhere sandy."  
  
Eredorn sighed. "Alright then...very well...how about the Battle of the Thunder Army...that army being elves, dwarves and men alike."  
  
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. "Yep that will do me, can we finish now?"  
  
"Seconded!" said Jacko eagerly.  
  
"That's my favourite!" offered Findathil.  
  
"Hmm," mused Norri. "How about, the Battle of the Thunder STICK?"  
  
Eredorn shot a very cold look at Dorri. I groaned and slumped onto the table. "Oh my God! Somebody make it end!"  
  
To my surprise, that is just what happened. An elf appeared hesitantly at the door. "My Lord," he said, addressing Eredorn. "A messenger has just arrived from Lothlorien."  
  
Eredorn rose, looking a little surprised. "From Lothlorien? What news does he bear?"  
  
"Happy news sire. Our Queen, Galadriel, has heard of our victory. She is to visit us this very day to honour us all." He glanced at me, Jacko and Norri as if noticing us for the first time. "Men and dwarves included."  
  
"Galadriel herself! Here?" Eredorn lost his usual composure for a moment or two. "Erm...excuse me, my guests, I fear this discussion must wait. I will need to make sure arrangements are in place for the visit."  
  
He strode out of the room, followed by the messenger and an excited-looking Findathil.  
  
"Galadriel! Groaned Norri. "Just what I need!"  
  
"A Queen eh?" said Jacko, sounding impressed. "What is she like?"  
  
"Oh, serene, mysterious, magical, that sort of thing," I informed him. "And blonde. And VERY beautiful."  
  
"I say...!" he enthused, beaming.  
  
"Hrumph!" sorted Norri. "Too thin if you ask me, let alone too tall. And a true know-it-all to boot! Well I suppose we'll have to make the effort and be polite. I had better repair to my halls and spread the 'glad' tidings."  
  
He took his leave as well, leaving Jacko and me alone to ponder the royal visitation.  
  
"A Queen?" repeated Jacko. "Of course I'm quite au fait with royalty, don't you know? I once danced with a gal who was 17th in line for the throne. And I showed King George my Spitfire when he came to inspect the squadron!"  
  
"Well I'm sure Queen Galadriel will want to see it too," I said, a sinking feeling in my heart. Jacko was insufferably popular with the local elven maids, and the thought of witnessing him turning on the charm for Galadriel was almost too much to bear.  
  
"Well...," shaking off he torpor of the council, he sprang up from his chair. "Think I'll just cut along and give the old Thunder Stick a polish."  
  
"My you DO get excited about royalty don't you...?" I said, somewhat taken aback for a second. "Oh, you mean the cannon...right...er...yes."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Jacko left, leaving me feeling at something of a loose end.  
  
The elves, who until then had seemed quite a cool bunch, were suddenly thrown into a tumult by the news that Eredorn had received. There was a general bustle of tidying up and a hubbub of plans being made. Debate was joined about just who made the best food, what constituted the finest wine and who should sing which of their interminable bloody songs. To my dismay, they started running through their repertoire to help them decide.  
  
The dwarves were driven by a sort of cussed pride to spruce up their stronghold. Jacko, for his part, clucked over his cannon and the remains of the Spitfire like a mother hen.  
  
The defeat of the orcs had emboldened us all. The dwarves had established watch posts much further up the valley than before, with the mobile cannon positioned on a commanding spur. It was manned in shifts by dwarves who had been trained in its use by Jacko.  
  
One of the benefits of our territorial expansion was that the upper reaches of the valley included a number of waterfalls, with cool, bubbling splashpools that were as near as Middle Earth would get to a combined shower and spa. Ok, a very cold shower and spa, but it was a nice day and I needed a break from all the to-ing and fro-ing.  
  
It was warm for spring and the climb to my favourite waterfall left me hot and panting, so while the feel of the chilly, churning water came as a shock to the system, it wasn't an entirely unpleasant one. I closed my eyes, lay back and celebrated the glory of such pastoral pleasure in the best way possible: singing 'Since You Been Gone' by Rainbow. I had just got to the  
  
Woah-ohoh, Woah-ohoh-oh, Ever since...you been gone  
  
bit and was about to embark on a Richie Blackmore tribute air guitar solo when I became aware of a shadowy presence among the tall reeds that fringed the pool's far side.  
  
I shut up and tried to pass it all off as a cough, which I immediately guessed was not convincing. The figure in the ferns looked down at me impassively, not a flicker of emotion on his face. He was an elf, but unlike any elf I had yet met. He was taller, his features finer yet somehow stronger too than those of Eredorn's folk. There was an aura of calm power in his stance, yet a look of darkness in his eyes that was quite unlike anything I had come to expect of the wood elves.  
  
I was about to learn a very valuable lesson: when surprised in a waterfall splash pool, do make sure you shake all intruding water out of your ears before starting a conversation. It can save all sorts of misunderstandings.  
  
"Er...hi," I ventured uncertainly. "I don't think we've been introduced?"  
  
The elf was silent for a moment, then spoke in a deep, mellifluous voice. That was when I realised I was trying to listen to him through quite a bit of river water.  
  
"Who indeed...garbulluggug...from far...frmgargllblag....Galadriel...nangruggug...the thing...bargaguggle...that I want...barframgam" was all I could make out.  
  
"Ah right," I said. I was already feeling rather silly for having been caught cavorting in a pool mid-Rainbow and didn't want to compound matters by asking him to repeat what he had said. "You're here for Galadriel's visit then?" I guessed.  
  
He nodded. "Yes...naglagrang...heard the singing...blargargargle...enya."  
  
This took me aback a little. Had he really said Enya? How would a Middle Earth elf know about the Irish songstress and former Clannad lead singer?  
  
"Uh...I see," I lied. I tried to shake the water from my ears.  
  
He continued. "My destiny...flarhargabuggle...lust to own...mrumblememn...Adam Ant."  
  
"Adam Ant?" I repeated, mouth agape. I shook my head again, and finally cleared the water out. Enya, Adam Ant... I could only assume that crossovers from my world to Middle Earth were more common than I had thought, and one such had somehow resulted in a taste for 1980s music among elvenkind. Maybe Adam Ant himself had been visiting Middle Earth for years. That would explain a lot, actually.  
  
"Yes!" replied the elf.  
  
"Er...did you say you lusted to own Adam Ant?"  
  
His eyes flashed impatiently. "Your manner of speech is strange, but yes I do. More correctly, I lust for the ring of Adam Ant."  
  
"You lust for the ring of Adam Ant?" I repeated slowly, aghast.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Look mate," I said, in a placatory tone. "Each to their own I suppose and we all have our celebrity fixations, but that is WAY too much information, ok?"  
  
The elf looked at me, a mixture of anger and sorrow on his face.  
  
"You wish no part of my quest. Perhaps you are right, secondborn. Yet you alone can help me atone for what is past."  
  
"I can? And what is past, exactly?"  
  
He sighed. "It is too sad to tell in your simple tongue. Better that I sing a lament and let the music fill your senses with the tragedy of it."  
  
Oh bugger. Elven lament warning. "I'd REALLY rather you didn't," I interjected quickly.  
  
He nodded sadly. "You speak wisely, for upon the first note all nearby would know of me. Suffice to say my kinfolk were long ago deceived, and much ill came from it."  
  
I was intrigued despite myself.  
  
"Deceived? Who by?"  
  
His eyes narrowed. "By the Dark Lord, the Destroyer, the Enemy of Light and Font of all Evil."  
  
"Uh-huh...well the clue WAS in the name then, really, wasn't it?"  
  
He ignored me. "The elves hereabout cannot understand. Nor will the sons of Aule. But you, secondborn, maybe you can help me. I seek an audience with Galadriel. A few moments alone, that is all."  
  
I shrugged. "Doesn't sound such a big deal. And what about this Adam Ant thing?"  
  
He looked away, his eyes distant. "After my counsel with Galadriel, then I will claim the ring of Adam Ant for my own."  
  
"Ok," I cautioned. "Well that I REALLY don't want to see."  
  
"Bring her to this glade," he continued. "She alone can help me achieve my destiny."  
  
Well, I had nothing else to do, I reasoned. "Ok then."  
  
"So," repeated Jacko, trying to make sense of my story. "You say elves seem to have some fondness for the music of people called Enya and Adam Ant?"  
  
I nodded. "Yeah. And I know what you're thinking: you'd expect elves to be into Hawkwind really, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Hawkwind?"  
  
I mused a second. "No you're right, not Hawkwind. Marillion maybe. Or early Genesis."  
  
"What an EARTH are you talking about?" asked Jacko, sounding exasperated.  
  
I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. The main thing is this strange elf bloke wants to meet Galadriel. I think he's hoping she'll introduce him to Adam Ant. Maybe he lives here, and Galadriel knows him, or something."  
  
"Well assuming he does, why does this elf want to meet him so badly?" queried Jacko.  
  
"Best not to ask, believe me," I replied. "Let's just say I've always had my doubts about elves."  
  
Jacko returned to polishing the cannon. "Well what harm can it do?" he commented over his shoulder. "That waterfall isn't so far from here, I'll see if I can get her to pop along once she has seen my Thunder Stick."  
  
"Thanks," I said as I left. "But I REALLY wish you'd stop coming up with phrases like that."  
  
Galadriel arrived mid-afternoon. The songs started ringing around the mallorn grove as a neatly turned-out contingent of Lothlorien elves marched into the woods from the south. They wore gleaming armour and really rather silly helmets. At the centre of the column, mounted on a horse of purest white, rode a slender elven women clad in shimmering samnite. Her long golden hair seemed to glow like a halo about her.  
  
At Eredorn's insistence I was lined up with the welcoming party at the foot of his colony's central mallorn. Beside me stood Jacko, resplendent in flying jacket, silk scarf and peaked cap bearing the RAF eagle insignia with its 'Per Ardua Ad Astra' motto.  
  
Eredorn escorted Galadriel along the line, his movements made awkward by deference. He introduced her to each person, and as she drew nearer I caught a glimpse of her, a soft smile playing on her lips as she spoke to each in turn.  
  
"...and what do you do?" I heard her ask.  
  
"Erm, I'm an archer My Lady."  
  
"An archer? How delightful...and what do you do?"  
  
"I...I am the Treasurer My Lady."  
  
"The Treasurer...how delightful...." She reached Findathil, who was lined up beside Jacko.  
  
"And what do you do?" she asked of Findathil. He seemed a little tongue tied. "Oh...ah...well...I...you know...help Eredorn...with stuff."  
  
"Stuff? How...delightful." She moved onto Jacko. "Oh, a man how...um...delightful," she intoned..  
  
"Well hellllo," replied Jacko, stroking his moustache. "The delight is all mine, your majesty."  
  
Galadriel smiled, her face radiant. "How quaint! I have heard about the men here: now are you the one that made the magical weapon? Or the one who is really rubbish with a longbow?" I gritted my teeth.  
  
Jacko smiled smoothly. "Well modesty forbids me from claiming ALL the credit," he replied. "But the magical Thunder Stick did indeed come from my Chariot of Fire, your most serene majesty. If you would permit, I would love to show you it; it is only a little way up the valley."  
  
"I look forward to that," said Galadriel. Even from where I was standing, I could see the hint of a girlish smile and a twinkle in her eye. "Oh God!" I thought. "PLEASE don't let him pull Galadriel!"  
  
Still glancing at Jacko she moved on, standing before me now. "Ah the other man!" she exclaimed.  
  
"Yes, My Lady," I answered dutifully. "I'm..."  
  
"Oh, I know!" she interrupted. "You're the useless bowman!" She beamed, nodded and moved on.  
  
"Yes, that would be me," I muttered darkly.  
  
There were only a couple more elves in the line after me. Soon Eredorn was respectfully ushering Galadriel onto the walkway that would take her up to his reception hall. Galadriel looked back, catching Jacko's eye and smiling. He waved and turned to me, twirling his moustache.  
  
"I say, for a queen she's a foxy little wench, eh?" he opined.  
  
"For goodness sake!" I hissed. "She must be 9,000 years old if she's a day! Even if she wasn't happily married to a notoriously humourless elf bloke, which she is, she'll have heard every chat-up line in the book."  
  
Jacko just smiled. "9,000 years without meeting me? Poor gal...."  
  
"And what was all that about a Chariot of Fire?" I pressed.  
  
He shrugged. "Sorry to get all Biblical old chap, just couldn't think how else to describe a Spitfire to these elf types. Just sort of came to mind, you know, Spitfire, Chariot of Fire...."  
  
I sighed. "Well, it's better than Chariot of Spit I suppose. Anyway, if you can keep your hormones in rein, don't forget to bring her along to the glade by that waterfall ok? I'm off, I've had my fill of this regal stuff."  
  
"Had your fill of royalty? Why you...you republican, you!" rebuked Jacko. "But don't you worry, I'll work the old Jacko charm and I'm sure she'll come along to meet your odd elf chap."  
  
I wandered back up to the waterfall. The sky was a cloudless blue and the sun, while dipping now towards the nearby mountains, was still hot enough to make me glad of the chance to sit beside the splash pool and let the fine mist of cool water wrap itself gently around me. After a while I heard the slightest rustling among the ferns and turned to see the mysterious elf standing there, brooding and silent.  
  
"I WISH you'd stop sneaking up like that!" I complained.  
  
"Will Galadriel be here?" he asked brusquely.  
  
"Hopefully," I answered. "Not sure how long we'll have to wait though."  
  
He sighed and looked up into the skies. "I have waited so long, mere hours cannot hurt me."  
  
I wasn't sure what to say. "Oh, that's...er...good," I ventured.  
  
"Good!" he snorted. "We thought we acted for good, so very long ago. Yet what evil came from it! How we were corrupted by our own pride! How we fell to acts that caused the Valar, who once so loved us, to turn their faces from us and harden their hearts to us."  
  
"Erm...yeah I HATE it when that happens."  
  
Mere hours might not hurt him, but they looked like being pretty excruciating for me. Thankfully at that moment he was cut short by the musical tones of a female elven voice approaching from downstream.  
  
"...so nice to leave Lothlorien for a time," she was saying. "And to be free of my guards too! It takes me back to when I was a girl in Valinor, without a care in the world. And to talk music, you say? I love music. I fear Eredorn will worry for my safety, though."  
  
The replying male voice was all too familiar. "Oh don't you worry, Your Majesty! I used to box for my college, you know? Quite handy, though I say so myself...now where is that damn waterfall...?"  
  
Jacko came into view through the tangled bushes that grew down to near the water's edge, gallantly holding a branch aloft to allow Galadriel through after him. He looked up and saw me. "Ah there you are! And this is your friend eh?"  
  
Galadriel looked up. As her gaze took in me and the elf, the smile on her lips faded. The sparkle left her eyes, replaced by a look of sombre recognition.  
  
"Here we all are then!" said Jacko chirpily. "Now as I understand it, Your Majesty, this chap wants to meet some blighter called Adam Ant and you can maybe help?"  
  
Galadriel's eyes locked with the stranger's. "You...! After all this time. What evil tidings can this mean?"  
  
"Eh?" asked Jacko. "You don't like Adam Ant then?"  
  
"Shush Jacko," I said irritably, suddenly sensing something was wrong.  
  
"Maglor," stated Galadriel simply. "Our tales told no more of you. All thought you lost to this world, like the Silmaril you slew your kindred for."  
  
The male elf gave a sad smile. "We all of us slew kindred for the Silmarils, did we not? And no, I am not lost, though often I yearned for that release. I have travelled far and shunned my kin these Ages past. But I know much of what has passed since then. I know of that." He paused and pointed to a very fetching ring that Galadriel was wearing. "That is what I seek. The power to atone for my deeds in the eyes of the Valar. The power to return Middle Earth to elvenkind."  
  
Jacko stood looking confused. I stood wishing I had paid more attention to the finer details of the Silmarillion.  
  
Galadriel's eyes narrowed slightly. "So you seek a ring of power! And who among these peoples do you count as an ally? Who has helped you seek to steal from me Nenya, the Ring of Adamant?"  
  
"Nenya?" I repeated. "Ring of Adamant?" I looked from Maglor to Jacko to Galadriel. "Well...you see...I THOUGHT he said...." I gave up explaining. "Oops. My bad."  
  
"You have been among the Moriquendi too long," glowered Maglor, staring purposefully at Galadriel. "Three rings of power for elvenkind...and you have hidden them! You should use their powers to confront Sauron, to drive back the tide of the secondborn – to renew the great Elven kingdoms of Middle Earth!"  
  
"You have wandered long without gaining wisdom," countered Galadriel icily. "We can make use of the three rings if we are careful. But they are bound to the One Ring. Their power is its power...and its power is Sauron's power."  
  
Maglor snorted. "Sauron! A mere underling of the Dark Lord! He has lost the One Ring...and should he find it, then I shall take it from him. And the Ring of Adamant will aid me."  
  
"Now look here old chap!" bristled Jacko. "I've had quite enough of your cockiness, you cad! You're talking to a Queen here you know! Now stand back I say or prepare to defend yourself!"  
  
Maglor laughed. "Puny secondborn! I have battled with Morgoth's armies! I have slain trolls by the score! I have wrestled with cold drakes and smitten fire drakes! I have crossed swords with balrogs! I have...." He was interrupted at this point by a punch from Jacko that floored him.  
  
"Not so hot against an uppercut though, eh?" muttered Jacko grimly. I snatched up a nearby branch and prepared to help Jacko make a fight of it.  
  
Galadriel sighed and held a hand up. "Do not fight him. He is a Noldor warrior. It would need all my guards for us to even stand a chance."  
  
Maglor rose to his feet. "You always were one of the wisest of us," he said to Galadriel. "You will give me the ring. But first, I will sing a song I have long since planned to mark this great day for the elves of Middle Earth..."  
  
"No!" I shouted. "Not an elven song! Couldn't you just kill me instead...please?"  
  
He ignored me and started a dirge-like wail that resonated around us, drowning out the noise of the waterfall as he sang mournfully in elvish, the notes soaring around us. Galadriel looked down, seemingly lost in thought. Jacko rubbed his grazed knuckles and scowled. I just winced and gritted my teeth.  
  
After two or three minutes, Maglor stopped.  
  
"Thank GOD!" I exclaimed.  
  
"That was but the first verse," intoned Maglor. "Indeed, but the introduction to the first verse."  
  
To my horror he drew himself up for another stanza or twenty. But before he could recommence, a surly Dwarven shout interrupted him: "Oy! Who is making that damnable elven racket? If you must sing, get back down your end of the valley to do it!"  
  
"Is that you Gloim?" barked Jacko. "You're supposed to be on Thunder Stick duty!"  
  
"Pilot Officer!" came the surprised response. "Erm...I AM on Thunder Stick duty!"  
  
A sudden realisation dawned on me. "Of course! We think we've come quite a way upstream from the spur with the cannon on it. And we have – but the river takes a big loop! We've not travelled all that far in a straight line, we're still quite close to the dwarf watch post."  
  
"Dash, you're right old chap!" exclaimed Jacko. "GLOIM! D'you see a cedar with a broken branch?" He was looking up at the tree behind Maglor.  
  
"Yes, Pilot Officer!" shouted the dwarf.  
  
"Count to – oh – twenty and give it a quick burst, there's a good chap?"  
  
"Erm...very well Pilot Officer!"  
  
"Will you and that lumpen earth delver-stop interrupting my song!" fumed Maglor.  
  
"Now you listen here," replied Jacko. "I have jolly well had enough of all this. I suggest you depart forthwith – WITHOUT her Majesty's ring – or I shall use my great magic to shatter you with a mighty thunder."  
  
Maglor laughed. "Great magic? The greatest sorcerer among men is but a cheap conjuror against the craft of my people!"  
  
Jacko drew himself up, moustache twitching with anger, and held his hands aloft theatrically. "You think so EH?" he boomed. "Take this as warning!" He paused. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. "Any second now, honest...."  
  
Suddenly there were two sharp cracks above us and a shower of shredded wood and bark erupted from the tree a couple of feet above Maglor's head. An instant later came a staccato crash of noise from the cannon. The broken branch that had identified the cedar was blasted free and leapt from the tree forcefully. It spun down with a splintering crash, obliging Maglor to dodge to his left. His composure was gone, his face betraying alarm and doubt. Galadriel seized the moment.  
  
"Middle Earth has changed much since you stole the last Silmaril, Maglor, and it seems you do not know as much as you suppose." She held up one finger, which seemed quite an un-queenly gesture, then I realised she was showing the ring Nenya. It seemed to glimmer with a red-tinged aura.  
  
"Go now," she ordered. "I command it! By the Magic of the Ring of Adamant."  
  
Jacko nodded and crossed his arms. "And by the Sorcery of the Thunder Stick!" he added.  
  
I caught the mood and held my branch aloft. "And by the...er...Power of Grey Skull!"  
  
Maglor looked from one to the other of us. He pursed his lips, then snarled angrily. But he started to slowly back away from us all the same.  
  
"You have delayed my plans...and nothing more!" he stormed. "You shall see me again!" With that he turned on his heel and stomped off into the undergrowth.  
  
Jacko turned to me. "By the Power of Grey Skull?" he queried.  
  
"I panicked!" I explained.  
  
Galadriel sighed. "It worked. But Maglor is nothing if not obsessively determined. The mere fact he still lives is proof of that. I fear he was right, and we shall see him again." But then she brightened. "Nevertheless, my friends, you have my thanks for helping me drive him away."  
  
She turned to Jacko. "And, Pilot Officer, I start to see the great magic your Chariot of Fire brought to Middle Earth! I would very much enjoy a demonstration of your Thunder Stick."  
  
Jacko stroked his moustache with a knowing grin and winked at me conspiratorially. "Absolutely, your Majesty – but shall we have a quick look at the cannon first?" 


	3. Chapter 3: Raising The Stakes

Tension filled the air. Meetings between Men, Elves and Dwarves could rarely ever be called 'relaxed', but this encounter was stretching nerves and tempers more than most. Stands had been taken, threats had been issued and matters were coming to a head.

"Give it up!" growled Norri, glowering across the table at Eredorn. "The Queen will not help you now."

The elf favoured him with a chilly smile. "You have threatened me once too often this night," he retorted. "I shall have your gold, and I shall have it now!"

I cleared my throat. "Um… isn't this all getting a bit out of hand lads? You know, we're all supposed to be friends here…"

Both turned their wrathful faces to me. "Silence!" barked Norri. "Unless you care to risk losing all…."

I narrowed my eyes: I would not be bullied by someone two foot shorter than me, mighty warrior or not. It was high time I laid my cards on the table. My hand slammed down onto the cedar wood, setting goblets and flagons atremble.

I looked from Norri to Eredorn and then down at the table. "Read 'em and weep, boys. Full house, Sixes over Queens."

Whatever else could be said for dwarves and elves, they weren't exactly the greatest of poker players. Both my opponents sank back in their chairs with a groan as I raked in a sizable pile of gold coins to add to my already large stash.

"Nice hand, old son," commented Jacko, who had wisely thrown in his Two of Clubs and Five of Spades and kept out of the way. The pack of cards was his: he'd found them while rummaging around in his emergency survival kit.

Norri was still scowling down at his pair of Kings. "I had two Kings!" he fumed. "And Eredorn had an Ace and a Queen! How dare you play against us with a Queen and a Six!"

I shrugged. "It's not just about cards Norri. It's about betting too. If you wanted me out of that hand you should have scared me off it. Ten more coins and I would have folded. It's not about how strong your hand is – it's about how strong you make me THINK it is."

Eredorn scooped his last few coins off the table. "Hmm. Very much a game of Men's devising: you are only ever subtle when being devious. Now if you will excuse me, the hour draws late and my purse grows light." He rose from the table.

"Good idea, old son," agreed Jacko. "And you both did dashed well for new players, I might add."

Eredorn nodded stiffly and forced a smile as he departed. Norri snorted, snatched up his remaining coins and stood up. "Good night to you all!" he replied, and with that he stomped out of the door with typical dwarvish good grace.

I stacked my winnings into four beautiful golden towers and poured myself another wine to celebrate.

"Very well played," congratulated Jacko. "But don't you think it was a bit off taking all their money? Them being novices and all?"

"Hey, they insisted they weren't scared of playing for gold," I replied. "Anyway, _Pacificpoker_ got enough of my money while I was learning the game. They should think of it as a tuition fee. And besides…" I took another gulp of wine and sighed. "Besides, Jacko… what else here am I good at? Norri leads a dwarf army, Eredorn is in charge of the elves, you have your Thunder Stick… me, what do I do? Except almost get the Ring of Adamant nicked by some wandering elf nutter?"

"You're much too hard on yourself!" assured Jacko. "It's a pretty rum place, this Middle Earth. You just haven't found your – your calling here yet. Give it time."

I sighed. "Time. I'm not sure how much of it we have. I wish I could remember what year it all kicked off in 'Lord of the Ring'. If it's this year then we will all need every combat skill we've got. Your Hispano-Suiza 20mm cannon is a definite plus: my ability to bluff with 2-4 off-suit probably isn't."

"Ah yes." Jacko stroked his moustache contemplatively. "This War of the Ring you keep talking about. Look I've been thinking about that: doesn't the mere fact that you and I are in this Middle Earth mean things might run differently here? Maybe we are going to change things, just by our being here?"

I put my goblet down and looked around nervously. "I'm not sure it's wise to question our existence in a fictional universe!" I warned. "It's a bit like a German sentry in a war film saying _'Ach, how I vish to be viz mein girlfriend in zat leetle café vhere ve first met…._' You just KNOW he'll get stabbed by a Commando the next instant! But yeah, you have a point, especially now Maglor has shown up: that was NOT supposed to happen. But us changing things could make it all worse."

"Worse than an almighty war?" queried Jacko. "How so?"

"Thing about it!" I explained. "We're in a little off-plot backwater. Maybe nothing that happens here ever made the story because we get wiped out to a man, elf and dwarf."

"Ah…" commented Jacko.

"Or," I continued. "We DO change things… but as the good guys are SUPPOSED to win, there's a good chance we change things for the worse."

"Once more, ah," said Jacko. "So either we get caught up in this war on the winning side and most probably die or we get caught up in this war on the losing side and DEFINITELY die?"

I nodded. "That's pretty much how I see it. Still, things could be worse."

Jacko raised an eyebrow. "They could?"

"Oh yes. We could have ended up in Narnia. Not only is that one big Christian allegory that ends in Armageddon, but the place is infested with god awful Home Counties kids with prep school accents and a lust for power."

"Hmm. See what you mean. Well old chap this is all getting a bit deep for me." Jacko stood with a yawn. "Think I'll toddle off to bed. See you on the morrow!"

Bidding him goodnight I lingered a while to finish my goblet of wine before making my way, in a contemplative mood, up to my quarters.

* * *

I slept in late the next morning. Partly because I was tired and a little hungover, but mostly because, as usual, I didn't have any particular thing to do. Or at least I didn't until I finally emerged into the late morning sun, to be confronted by the sight of Eredorn and Norri striding purposefully toward me along the walkway.

"Ah there he is!" said Eredorn.

"One moment, if you please!" called Norri.

Just as I'd feared. "Sorry guys, absolutely no refunds given on poker stakes! Sort of an unwritten rule of the game…."

"No, no, we do not want our gold back!" assured Norri. I was a little taken aback: this was not a statement you would normally associate with a dwarf.

"We've been talking about it this morning," continued Eredorn. "This game called poker has taught us a valuable lesson.

"A Full House beats a Flush?" I guessed.

"That was one lesson, yes," conceded Eredorn. "But rather I refer to the strategy of the game, its philosophy."

Norri nodded. "Yes. It's not the cards you have: it's how you play them."

I leant back on the walkway's railing and frowned. "Well yes, I'm glad you noticed that. But why the delegation?"

Eredorn looked across the treetops to the mountains. "The orcs hold many good cards. We hold but few. And they know we hold but few, for we never give them reason to think otherwise."

"Yes," concurred Norri. "The Thunder Stick has helped, but it has not changed how we play, so to speak. Still we sit here and wait. We defend. We react."

"We have been musing this for some days now," carried on Eredorn. "And last night you showed us the way. We need to play like we have a strong hand, even if we have not. We need to put doubt in the minds of our enemies."

It dawned on me. "You want them to think we're stronger than we are, don't you? You're going to attack!"

They both nodded. "Indeed," confirmed Eredorn. "And we would like YOU to lead the attack."

My jaw dropped a fair way groundwards, and it took me a few seconds to come up with a comprehensible response.

"M-me? You want ME to lead an attack into the Misty Mountains?" Again they nodded. "But… but WHY me?"

"Firstly, this will need many warriors from both my halls and Eredorn's trees, and no elf is commanding my Dwarven brethren!" explained Norri.

"The feeling is mutual!" said Eredorn coolly. "But more than that, you understand the strategy. It is more instinctive for you."

"Well... thanks for thinking of me guys… but I wouldn't know how to even go about getting into those mountains, let alone where to mount an attack."

Norri smiled and produced a scroll that he unfurled and handed to me. "And nor did we. However some days ago my people were clearing out a collapsed hallway and found an orcish journal. It has taken us some while to translate it, but here it is."

The scroll was covered in lines of tiny, neatly-lettered writing. I peered at it and read aloud.

**Day 187 of the Chieftainship of Ugblad:** _Rose early and managed to find a nice juicy beetle for breakfast. Am wondering about the point of this diary. I'm the only one in the clan that can read._

**Day 188 of the Chieftainship of Ugblad:** _My turn on kitchen duty. Made rat kebabs (my mother's recipe) with just a hint of a lichen garnish. Nobody even thanked me. Wondering why I bother._

**Day 189 of the Chieftainship of Ugblad**: _Snulg won the Annual Ear Wax Flicking contest, beating Chief Ugblad with the last flick of the day. The Chief is not happy. Am thinking I'm wasted here._

**Day 190 of the Chieftainship of Ugblad:** _Ugblad still narky with Snulg. Snulg says if Ugblad is such a great Chief, how come he never dares asks the Boss why he skulks around down here hiding from elves like a little girly goblin? Ugblad says he IS a great Chief and will do just that._

**Day 1 of the Chieftainship of Snulg: **_Wrote a 'congratulations on becoming Chief' poem for Snulg. He used it to wipe his bottom with. Am starting to suspect that orc society is stuck in a mire of vulgarity._

"No, no!" interrupted Norri impatiently, pointing a few inches down the scroll. "Here. Read THIS bit."

**Day 56 of the Chieftainship of Snulg:** _The secret emergency escape tunnel from the Main Level was finished today. It came out under a funny shaped boulder halfway between Mount Pointy and Mount Quite-Steep-On-One-Side-But-More-Like-A-Cliff-On-The-Other-Side. Grunkbat did most of the work and came back bare-chested and sweaty. Am starting to think I may be gay._

"We know where those two mountains are!" exclaimed Norri triumphantly. "Once we find this boulder, we can attack them through their OWN secret tunnel… they won't be expecting that!"

Eredorn nodded. "A surprise raid, carried out by our finest warriors, led by our most daring thinker. What say you?"

Suddenly, for the first time in a long time I felt useful. Useful and flattered.

"Well!" I beamed. "What can I say? Other than yes, I'd be honoured!"

Note to self: I tend to make really stupid decisions when feeling useful and flattered.

* * *

Mount Pointy and Mount Quite-Steep-On-One-Side-But-More-Like-A-Cliff-On-The-Other-Side, known to the dwarves by rather less prosaic names, were two peaks some ten miles away, far inside orc territory. After spending the morning deep in thought, I came up with a plan of elegant simplicity: forty dwarves and forty elves, under my direct command (I so liked the sound of that), would travel by day to find the not-secret-anymore tunnel. Norri had assured me that old dwarven maps showed there to be a narrow, wooded ravine nearby: we would wait there until dawn neared. The dwarves would then descend to the Main Level and wreak as much carnage as possible. The elves would stay on the surface, fighting off any counter-attacks from that direction and acting as reserves should things get a bit fraught below ground. We would then withdraw, the morning sun deterring any pursuit by orcs.

I presented my plan to Norri and Eredorn that afternoon, and couldn't help but feel a smidgen of pride as they listened, looked at each, nodded and looked back at me with – dare I say it – respect in their faces.

"We shall repair away at once and make ready our best warriors," promised Eredorn.

"And led by our best lieutenants too," added Norri. "I sense that this will be a most successful venture! Let us strike at the first opportunity: I say you march tomorrow."

Eredorn nodded. I shrugged, feeling emboldened by their confidence. "Tomorrow? No problem."

I told Jacko all about it when he came back from the Thunder Stick that evening. He was busy himself, having persuaded Norri to loan some extra warriors to serve in what he had started calling his "Field Artillery Battery". They were presently building a little stone fortlet to protect his precious cannon from a surprise attack.

He couldn't stop a twinge of anxiety passing across his face as I told him of my mission the next day, but he was upbeat none the less. "Behind enemy lines eh, old chap?" he commented. "Jolly good, the Hun hate that sort of thing, don't you know! Just you… ah… be careful, eh?"

"Don't you worry about that!" I laughed. "There will be 80 warriors with me and THEY will be doing the fighting, I assure you!"

I took to my early that night. Tomorrow would be a busy day.


	4. Chapter 4: Onward and Upward

We left the elvish settlement early the next morning. True to his word Eredorn had assigned his forty finest warriors to the mission, among them Findathil. He himself had raided the armoury and found me some armour that more-or-less fitted, and the clanking of it as I descended from my quarters made me feel very military. I strapped a scabbard to hang at my left hip; from my right I hung a leather water flask and a pouch carrying _lembas_ bread. Then I shouldered my bow and took a deep breath. My flattered confidence of the day before began to give way to self-doubt: forty fighters was a big commitment from such a small community. Yes I could be the person to surprise the orcs, but I could also be the one to throw away a fighting force we could not afford to lose.

I scowled at the thought: now was no time for defeatism. I stood in what I hoped was a posture of casual confidence in front of the four gleaming ranks of warriors. They all towered above me, partly because not one of them was less than 6'4" tall, partly because I had drawn the line when it came to wearing one of their silly helmets.

"Right men! Er… I mean right, elves!" I started, less than convincingly. I searched for something Churchillian to say for a moment, but in the end settled for; "Let's get going then!"

Findathil nodded to his brethren and they turned right in unison and set off at a sharp march. It was quite hard work to keep up. As we headed towards the edge of the woods I glanced around: a number of elves had gathered on the walkways to see us off. I spotted Eredorn and he noticed, nodding to me gravely. Female elves looked down anxiously on their departing loved ones: their departing loved ones looked anxiously at my longbow. There was no sign of Jacko.

We marched across the open ground to the dwarves' stronghold, where we found Norri, accompanied by a couple of guards and his forty warriors, waiting outside the great carved hillside entrance. I recognised the lieutenant he had nominated: a nephew of his called Dirrim. I hadn't had much to do with him but he'd always seemed ok.

"Good luck," growled Norri to me. Dirrim and Findathil nodded to each other courteously.

"Thanks Norri. Er… I couldn't borrow a helmet from you guys could I?" The rounded dwarven helmets looked rather more practical than their elven equivalents.

Norri turned to one of the guards and requisitioned his helmet, presenting it to me. "Here. May it break the swords of the orcs."

"Well I'd rather they didn't get to hit me on the head with a sword in the first place, but the sentiment is appreciated," I replied.

"Hmm. Dirrim here has the map our forefathers made in the Orc Wars. It is old but should guide you well enough. Make haste, though the distance is not long the way ahead is hard." With a peremptory wave to Dirrim he turned and stamped back into his halls, guards in tow.

I turned to the assembled force and cleared my throat. "Okay let's move it out!"

The elves glanced sideways at the dwarves. The dwarves glanced sideways at the elves. They all glanced sideways at me.

"Erm… move WHAT out?" queried Dirrim.

For the first time it occurred to me that winning one game of Diplomacy and watching most of "Blackhawk Down" maybe didn't qualify me as a military leader.

"Well…er… well…" I replied, flustered. "Just… IT. You know?"

"Not really, no," said Dirrim. He looked across at Finadthil who shrugged and shook his head.

"It means… let's all march off in the direction we're going," I explained, more flustered still.

"Oh right. Well why didn't you say so?" Dirrim turned to face his troops. "Dwarves of the House of Norri! Form standard marching column, four abreast, and prepare to lead off!"

"Lead off?" queried Findathil as the dwarves neatly lined up with much jangling of armour. "Surely we elves must lead!"

"Elves lead? Never!" growled Dirrim.

Findathil frowned and looked to me. "This is why a Man was chosen to lead us. What say you?"

My heart sank. I looked from one to the other and tried to come up with an answer.

"Er… ok," I said at length. "Dirrim, split your dwarves: half to lead, half to bring up the rear. Findathil, your elves go in the middle. That will give them a bit more time to fire their bows if we're attacked from either front or rear."

Both had opened their mouths to argue, but stopped with a 'fair enough' look on their faces. I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

We set off along the trail that led along the side of the river. The elves were marching five abreast: perhaps that was their normal marching formation, more likely they just wanted to be different to the dwarves.

After a few minutes we rounded the spur of the river where the cannon was positioned. A partly-built stone breastwork was taking shape in front of it, obscuring the customised undercarriage cart from view.

"Tally ho chaps!" called down a familiar voice. "Go and give the blighters a bloody nose!"

"I wondered where you were!" I shouted back to Jacko.

"Just thought I'd keep a special eye out this morning," he replied. "Nothing worse than being bounced by Jerry at the start of a mission!"

"Cheers mate but you worry too much. Piece of cake! See you tomorrow!"

We carried on past the cannon, up the stream's valley and beyond the waterfall where we had routed Maglor. We were now at the edge of what we regarded as our territory: an area only occasionally patrolled by our scouts, and then only in broad daylight. Half an hour later and we were beyond even that. The faint riverside path petered out and we were now blazing an increasingly steep trail. The trees disappeared, replaced by bushes, which in term became smaller and sparser until they too were gone. We were now making our way over bare rock, with only moss, lichen and the occasional hardy weed adding any green to a vista of greyness.

A cool breeze was blowing but all the same I felt hot and uncomfortable as I toiled upwards in the unfamiliar weight of my armour. The dwarves and elves weren't even breathing hard. Findathil had moved forward to march with me and Dirrim at the head of the column, and the pair of them had plenty of breath still for squabbling.

"Evidently we dwarves are most valuable to this venture," Dirrim was arguing. "Why else would we be in the vanguard?"

"Your dwarves also bring up the rear," responded Findathil.

"That is simply to better protect your elves should the enemy fall on us."

"No, it is simply to buy us time to win the day with arrow shot. Perhaps your warriors would be so good as to account for the few orcs that reach them."

Dirrim snorted. "We dwarves can kill at range too. Our hand axes may not fly as far but they hit home with more weight!"

"Yes, to be picked up and thrown BACK by the surviving foes."

"When we dwarves throw hand axes there are NO surviving foes…!"

"Will you two give it a rest!" I snapped. I was in a bad mood: we had just rounded a hillock and could now see the ground rising up ever more steeply ahead of us to a mountain pass. "Oh will you look at that!" I complained. "I'll never get up there without a rest."

"Well then, order one!" suggested Dirrim. "You ARE in charge."

"Oh yeah, I forgot that." I turned to the following ranks. "Okay men! … I mean, dwarves and elves… we'll take five here."

"Take five what?" asked Findathil.

"I mean, let's take a rest," I explained with a sigh.

"Ah I see," he said, then turned to his warriors. "Elves, we break our march here a while. Stay watchful!"

"My dwarves, we also halt. Post sentries ahead and to the rear," barked Dirrim.

I slumped onto a rock and looked apprehensively at the two mile uphill slog ahead. At this rate I'd be no use at all by the time we mounted our daring raid. Dirrim seemed to read my thoughts. "Do not worry," he offered. "Once we crest that pass we are more than half way there, and it will be downhill all the way."

Well that was good news at least. Though it would mean we would have to make our getaway uphill for the first few miles. I removed the dwarven helm, wiped my perspiring brow and allowed myself a couple of gulps of water from the flask.

"Let's see that map, Dirrim," I suggested, by way of something to do while my legs recovered their strength. He nodded and unhooked a leather cylinder from his belt: he unstoppered it and carefully nudged out a roll of parchment. Its antiquity was evident: age had stained his brown, and some of its less-successful former owners had stained it with blotches of rusty red. It was frayed and in places it was hard to tell what was a line on the map and what was a crease.

Dirrim spread it out flat, or as flat as it would go, on a broad slab of rock. He looked up at the pass ahead and helpfully oriented the map to match. He indicated a point on the map, reading the spidery runes just barely visible next to it.

"Here is the pass ahead of us: the Pass of Egbard, where Egbard and his five loyal lieutenants defied five score orcs unto the death and so allowed his beaten army to retreat and regroup."

Next he pointed to the peak to the left of the pass, and then to the corresponding feature on the map. "The Peak of One Thousand Sighs, where the male line of the House of Thorgood perished, ambushed by a legion of trolls."

"And that mountain?" I asked, pointing to the peak to the right of the pass.

Dirrim squinted at the map. "Mount Pleasant." He looked up at me. "Where nothing much bad has happened, I suppose."

"Ok I vote we keep on THAT side of the pass," I decided. "And where is this wood we're heading for?"

Dirrim tapped a dense little trapezoid of dark swirls on the parchment. "Here. The runes beside it are illegible, so I know not its name."

Findathil stared at the spot intently. "Hmmm. Perhaps you should seek your allies' assistance occasionally. Elven sight, in clear air and daylight at least, is keener than any other's."

He gestured to a smudged tangle of faint characters beside where the wood was marked. "My Dwarvish isn't perfect, but I believe that to say "The Glade of Certain Death".

Dirrim scowled at the elf and then the map, lowering his face to inspect the offending text. "It most certainly does NOT!" he argued. "I think that's a plural. "GLADES of Certain Death."

"Oh yeah well that's MUCH better, obviously," I commented as my heart sank down to somewhere south of my lungs. "Our masterplan is to hide out in a wood called the Glades of Certain Death…."

"OUR masterplan?" they queried in unison.

"Ok, ok MY masterplan." My heart neastled down lower to keep my pancreas company.

Dirrim sighed. "We must decide, while there is still a choice to press on or turn back. This map is ancient, from a time of war. Many of the terrors from those days were slain by my forebears. It is just a name."

Findathil nodded. "Agreed. And yet…I have a bad feeling about this."

"Oh well thanks for that, Han," I said peevishly. I sighed. Could I face marching back, not one arrow fired, because I had taken fright at a name on a map? Well, they'd put a stupid human in charge, they could reap the harvest of stupid human pride.

"We carry on as planned," I said purposefully, donning my helmet once more. "Let's blow this thing and go home."


	5. Chapter 5: A Restless Night

The march continued: never have two miles seemed so far. The pass seemed to grow a little steeper with each step, my armour a little heavier, the temperature a little less bearable. But gradually the crest crept nearer until, almost an hour later, we were standing atop it, close to where it formed a saddle with the lower slopes of Mount Pleasant.

I slumped against a boulder, too knackered to care that I was the only one who seemed to be in any discomfort. Findathil and Dirrim stood a few yards away, diplomatically making great play of studying the lie of the land rather than the lack of fitness of the Supreme Commander. There was a chinking of armour as a dwarf pushed through from the rear and approached Dirrim in consternation. "Liege," he reported. "Borbur does not like that noise! He has battled wargs and they sound thus when maddened by pain."

"That… would… be… me… catching… my… breath," I gasped. "And I AM maddened by pain, thanks for asking."

"The path bears us down the slope from here," said Dirrim encouragingly. "See! There is what the orcs call Mount Pointy. We should find the passage some way to the south of it."

"And there," intoned Findathil, pointing to a sliver of dark off to the left, "There are the Glades of… er… there are the glades."

I had graduated from a slump to a slightly slouchy sit now. I broke off some _lembas_ and chewed it slowly, wanting to eke as many seconds of inactivity as possible out of this break. I had eaten the stuff before of course, but never when in bad need of an energy rush. The effect was startling: I felt the strength surge back into my aching legs as my tiredness lifted with every mouthful.

"Wow!" I commented as I washed it down with a sip of water. "This stuff is better than Kendal Mint Cake!"

I stood, aware that the day was passing by and we still had a good distance to cover. But the mountain breeze cooled my brow and the terrain ahead was easy. "What are we waiting for?" I asked. "Let's get a move on!"

I set off with a new found jauntiness in my step. I felt rested and refreshed, I led a proud fighting force and I was starting to think I looked pretty damn good in armour. If it wasn't for the fact I was leading the way to a place called the Glades of Certain Death, I could almost have been happy.

The sun was still reasonably high in the sky as we approached the gully from which the glowering canopy of the trees protruded. They were the only significant vegetation around: apart from a little low, scrubby gorse and the occasional weed sprouting from a cleft in the rock, the slopes were devoid of greenery. Despite my slowing things down, we had arrived in good time to disappear into the woodland before twilight permitted the first orc eyes to squint out across the mountains.

As we neared the trees I could see that they were ancient: tall, broad of girth, rimed with moss on twisted branches that seemed to be clawing up toward sunlight from the depths of the ravine. Despite the refuge they offered, they started to look increasingly sinister.

"No trees," I muttered, glancing around. "No trees ANYWHERE… except here…"

Findathil overheard me. "Orcs, then dwarfs, then orcs again: these mountains are not the home of those that love trees, nor have they been for many an age."

"Forges need charcoal," countered Dirrim defensively. "And delving needs props!"

"I seek not to offend," retorted Findathil mildly. "You are right, but that does not alter the truth: there is little living timber left in these parts."

"Except here," I repeated.

"Aye," nodded Findathil. "Except here…."

The gully was a great crease in the rocky saddleback of the pass. Our approach brought us to the uphill end, where the descent into it was precipitous. A mountain stream entered it nearby, turning from stream to torrent to waterfall as is tumbled down into the undergrowth. Its course thereafter – and indeed the entire floor of the gully – was cloaked by densely packed trees and rich undergrowth.

We picked our way down carefully, single file, and it took quite a while. With all of us down among the trees, we pressed deeper into the wood until we found a narrow clearing where a tree had fallen, taking another down with it. We paused, both Findathil and Dirrim giving me that expectant "well, say something, then" look.

"We stay here," I announced. "We get what rest we can and move out at first light. No fires, no splitting up and absolutely no bloody songs about days gone by."

"You do not wish us to reconnoitre the wood?" asked Findathil.

"Nope!" I replied confidently.

"How many guards do you wish posted?" asked Dirrim.

"Oh…er… about… you know… about the average…" I offered, less confidently.

"Which calls shall the guards use should they spy something?" pressed Findathil.

"Er… well…." I thought back to the last awkward meeting I'd been to in my previous life. "Look! Bring me solutions, not problems! I'm high-concept, top-down and hands-off in this particular paradigm. Comprenez?"

Both looked at me for a moment. "You know not what you are doing, do you?" offered Dirrim at length.

"Not really, no."

Findathil and Dirrim agreed a watch rota and sentry positions with minimal bickering, ordering those not standing guard to get some sleep and sustenance ahead of our attack. The sun slid down behind the peaks to the west. Evening shadows lent further menace to the ancient woodland, though this was tempered by the alternative – orc scouts would now be out, and it was a comfort to be hidden from their view.

But even that thought could not dispel a growing sense of foreboding as night fell. I could see it in the eyes of the dwarves and elves and I could feel it myself. The trees started to creak in a breeze none of us could feel. Strange muffled wildlife calls filtered through the oppressive ranks of trunks.

"This is not a wholesome place!" grumbled Dirrim as he polished off a leg of chicken. "It feels wrong to me…."

"Dwarves don't like old forests," I reasoned. "Even I know that."

"But elves do," interjected Findathil. "Yet I like this grove no better than Dirrim."

As if to emphasise his concern, a thin wail sounded from somewhere in the wood. Others joined it, rising to a crescendo before fading away. Everyone looked at each other, and then at me.

"Ok," I said slowly. "I don't suppose that was some mountain animal that you all know about and aren't the least bit worried about?" Dirrim and Findathil shook their heads.

"Course not…," I sighed. We couldn't base ourselves in woods that held who-knows-what menace. "Form your warriors up," I said heavily. "We need to get to the bottom of this. I suppose."

The gully – and hence the wood – was quite narrow. There was only one direction the sounds could have come from: downhill, at the further end of the gully. Findathil despatched two elves to scout ahead, and with this being dwarves' least-favourite terrain, Dirrim was for once not inclined to argue.

We moved forward, as stealthily as we could. Which with 40 dwarves in full armour tagging along, was not very.

After about ten minutes, Findathil became concerned: the scouts had not reported back. Something was definitely wrong, and if the scouts had come to harm we had lost any element of surprise. At a word from their leaders, both dwarves and elves spread out, arrows notched, axes drawn.

The noises came again, ever louder, ever more raucous. Pulse quickening, mouth dry, I drew my sword and pushed through a clump of undergrowth. I was at the edge of a large clearing… and my mouth fell open.

The two scouts were hanging from a tree, snagged in its branches, dangling in the breeze. Well actually no, not dangling: being shaken. And not snagged: being held. And not a tree – well not quite anyway: a tree with mighty limbs, huge yellow eyes, a gaping mouth and a slightly puzzled expression. It opened its mouth, and from it issued forth the most terrible sound:

"Haway, Holly, man! Is these the strippers? They're a bit scrawny, divven't yer think?"

Finally, my stunned mind accepted what it was seeing: a walking, talking tree. More than one walking, talking tree. A large clearing cram-packed with walking, talking trees. Oh my word, these were…

"Ents!" exclaimed Findathil, probably louder than intended. The scout-bearing tree-thing looked around and noticed us all, lined up at the clearing's edge and looking somewhat dumbstruck. It strode over to us, covering twenty yards in two paces, and set the unfortunate elves down, more or less gently.

"Why, there's more of them, man!" it boomed. "Haway, aboot time this place livened up! Divven't all stand there like divs, come and say hello, man!"

An instant forest formed behind the speaking ent: a varied array of tree-people, some with silver bark, some with brown, some sporting broad, rustling leaves, some bearing needles and cones. All gazed down on us with curious, benign and… well… slightly drunk faces.

I recovered a fraction quicker than Findathil and Dirrim. "Um… hi!" I tried. "We were just passing through. On our way to attack some orcs, as it happens. Hope you don't mind us staying in your wood for the night? It's very nice by the way, love what you've done with it."

The lead ent gave a raucous screech that I realised was laughter. "Why aye, pet, the more the merrier. I'm Maplegreen… and that there is wor marra, Holly, over there is Willowbreeze, that canny big lass is Oakapple, and that one clinging to her is Ivy."

An impressively rotund, grey-barked ent pushed through to join Maplegreen, swaying unsteadily. "Oh aye, and this is Sandra. It's her party."

"Haway man Maplegreen man!" slurred Sandra. "Gan over theer and get another bevy down yers!" She looked down at us, evidently struggling to focus. "And that goes fer yers an' all, man. I divven't want naybody sober at wor party! Gan to the entdraught spring, pet, it's a right canny bevy!"

I looked around the assembled sentient forest. "You're all… female…?" I half-stated, half-asked. This prompted a terrifying round of laughter.

"Why aye pet, we're here for wor Sandra's wedding celebration!" answered the prickly looking one who had been introduced as Holly. "Course we're all female! Why yer asking, pet, fancy yers chances, like?" Cue more laughter.

"Have we just found…?" murmured Dirrim.

"The entwives. The lost entwives. Yes we have," said Findathil. "But these are not how they are remembered in our histories! What HAS happened to them?"

"I don't know but maybe best we don't refuse their hospitality," I suggested.

Reluctantly and rather nervously, the entire contingent of us entered the clearing. Instead of getting some much needed rest ahead of a daring raid, we were actually mingling. At a party. With drunk entwives.

Maplegreen seemed to have taken a shine to me and ushered me to the far side of the clearing, to a point where a little spring bubbled out from a cleft rock into a pool, from which a trickle of a stream ran out among the trees. The entwives were taking it in turns to amble over, stoop, drink great gulps from the pool then stagger away again happily.

"Gan an, have a sip, man!" encouraged Maplegreen, giving me what she probably thought was a gentle nudge but almost propelling me headfirst into the pool. I scooped up a handful of the liquid: it was a peaty brown colour, with a few tiny bubbles fizzing to its surface. With a deep breath I tried a tiny sip.

Dirrim had joined us. He saw my reaction and was concerned. "What's the matter?" he asked urgently. "What is it?"

"It… it… it's very like Newcastle Brown Ale," I answered in surprise.

"Whatever, man, all I knaa is it tastes canny!" retorted Maplegreen, kneeling down to take a slurp.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You've all been here having a party for Sandra…"

"Why aye man. She's to be wed to a lovely fella called Quickbeam. Course, that means her gannin' to Fangorn, so we're given her a proper canny send-off.""

"You've been having a hen night that has lasted since the Second Age? That must be, what…?"

"Over 3,000 years," said Findathil, who had just managed to extricate himself from a one-sided conversation with Holly.

"REALLY?" asked Maplegreen. "Why, I DID tell Sandra I thought it was getting a bit late…. Eee, doesn't time fly when yers having fun, pet? Still, shame to spoil her big party… maybe just a few more bevies…." With that she wandered off into the host of giggling, swaying entwives.

Findathil stared after her. "I have no idea what is happening here," he muttered.

"I'll tell you what's happened," I said quickly. "Another bloody crossover, that's what! There's something in that Newcastle Brown Entdraught that has turned them into a Geordie hen party!"

"Your words make little sense," grumbled Dirrim.

"Ok, well let me summarise," I answered. "We're in the middle of a Newcastle-style hen party, and we're all male. Flee, if you value your trousers!"

The message got through. As tactfully as we could, we extricated ourselves from the clearing. We were helped by Sandra finally crashing to the ground like a… well… felled tree. Most of the entwives clustered around her and tried to decide if they were concerned or amused. We took our chance and melted away into the woodland and back to the far end of the gully.

"So much for a restful night!" complained Dirrim as the entish laughter faded behind us.

"I know, I know," I answered. "But look on the bright side: no way are any orcs going to come anywhere near this wood!"

"Very true," agreed Findathil. "This explains its survival, and its name. None sent here this age to cut trees is likely to have returned."

We returned to our clearing, still shaking our heads at the night's turn of events. While the presence of the bizarre never-ending entwife party was a reassurance of sorts, we still posted sentries to be on the safe side. For my part I nestled against the trunks of one of the fallen trees, pulled a cloak over me to keep out the chill of the night and tried to get some sleep. Disrupted night or not, in a few hours I would be leading an attack on an orcish stronghold.

Translation notes:

Aboot: _About_

Bevy: Intoxicating drink

Canny: _Good/alright/pleasant_

Divven't: _Don't_

Gan: _Go_

Gan an: _Go on_

Geordie: Inhabitant of Newcastle upon Tyne

Haway: Either _hello_ or _let's go_.

Knaa: _Know_

Marra: _Friend_

Man: Standard term of address, used for either sex

Naybody: _Nobody_

Pet: Affectionate term of address

Theer: _There_

Why aye: _Well, yes_

Wor: _My/our_


	6. Chapter 6: The End of the Party

It seemed I had barely closed my eyes when they opened again, though I couldn't be sure what had awakened me. I looked around the clearing: all about me were the sleeping forms of dwarves and elves. Where on Middle Earth were the sentries? Then the quality of light changed: the faint glimmerings of pre-dawn were suddenly augmented by a warm golden glow. I looked around me and there, framed against a shimmering aura, was Arwen Evenstar, the fairest of all the maidens on Middle Earth. Or Liv Tyler, one of the two. It was a moot point: Arwen/Liv was approaching me with a smile, her tall, fulsome figure swaying with each step.

"Mightiest among men!" she breathed, her voice low and sultry. "I feel like I have known you all my life. How I admire what you do for us all!"

I blushed. "Well… gosh… thanks… I love your work too. Like that film with the asteroid. And the one where you wash that car and get all soapy…."

She smiled serenely and stooped, laying a hand on my shoulder. Her low-cut elven dress fought valiantly and all too successfully to contain her charms. She gazed at me intently. "Are you coming?"

"What? Heck, no, it's just the way I'm sitting…!"

She shook my by the shoulder with surprising force. Her voice dropped an octave. "Wake up! Are you coming or not?"

My eyes shot open. For real this time. Damn… it had been a dream. The distinctly unlovely face of Dirrim was peering intently down at me. "Wake up! It's time to go!"

I groaned and sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Knew it was too good to be true…" I muttered.

"It is first light," informed Dirrim. "This day we visit fear and death on our foes. Stand and breathe in the cool morning air!"

"Actually I think I'll stay sitting for another moment or two, if that's ok…."

Dirrim ignored me any way. He had that faraway look of one who was imagining himself being sung about in centuries to come.

At length I forced my creaking legs to straighten out and lift me up. I was cold, damp with dew and aching from a night on the bare ground. I couldn't have felt less like fighting if I'd been born Swiss.

"Ah, you rise at last!" said Findathil, striding over. "The sentries report a quiet night, what little was left of it. Noises of merrymaking appear to have ceased."

I nodded and stretched. And yawned. And stretched again. And yawned and sneezed. And stretched.

"Ok, good. Right, breakfast then. No fires of course. Then we form up and head to the far end of the glades."

The elves broke out the _lembas_, while the dwarves rummaged in their bags and sacks and emerged with chicken legs, slices of ham and beef, jars of pickles, small crusty bread rolls, pats of butter and the occasional cheese. Dwarves, it seemed, had raised picnic-packing to an Olympic sport: I gravitated towards them and managed to cadge some ham and buttered bread.

With a last check of Dirrim's map and the last mouthful of ham sandwich despatched, I was ready. Findathil and Dirrim gave their orders, and both elves and dwarves formed up quickly into precise ranks. Then the two leaders and I conferred.

"Alright," I said, map held out in front of me. "Findathil, while we're in the glades you keep your scouts out ahead of us, ok? Let's try and avoid that damn ent clearing if we can. Once we're at the treeline, we head for the secret entrance." I jabbed its position on the map. "How far do you think it is?"

"An hour's march, no more," estimated Dirrim.

"Good. Once we leave the trees, we head straight there, as fast as your soldiers can manage." Findathil and Dirrim looked at me. "Alright, alright, as fast as I can manage, then. Once we get there we'll have to find the entrance of course…."

"I shall personally do so," said Dirrim. "No orc workmanship can fool the eye of a dwarf."

Findathil did not seem inclined to argue, which made a nice change. "We elves shall stand watch while you find the entrance. Though we should have little to fear while out in the open under the sun."

"Yes," I agreed. "It's the bit after that that worries me."

* * *

With the morning light filtering through the leaves and no entwife screeches, the woodland seemed a lot friendlier. We picked our way around the party clearing as best we could, but as it was almost as wide as the narrow glade that was hard: we passed within sight of the entwives. I braced myself for a bloodcurdling "Haway, man!"… but came there none. The entwives appeared to have entered a tree-like state, and were standing (in Sandra's case, lying) motionless and silent, giving the impression that the woodland had reclaimed the clearing. With a collective sigh of relief we pressed on.

As we neared the far end of the glades, the gorge we were in became shallower, its slopes gentler. The tall trees gave way to sprawling bushes, and then, abruptly, to bare rock. The weather was as it had been the day before: the sun rose in a blue sky, its warmth tempered by the mountain breeze.

Dirrim pointed over to the left. "There, see where the pass rises toward those peaks? In the broken ground is where we will find the secret entrance."

Findathil surveyed the route. "From here onwards I bow to Dirrim and his kin's knowledge of stone and mountain." Dirrim looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"We still need archers," I offered.

Findathil nodded. "Yes. If you are willing, my elves will push out and screen our approach. But we will truly come into our own during our retreat homeward."

Dirrim harrumphed. "Dwarves do NOT retreat from orcs. We will WITHDRAW homeward, in good order."

* * *

The way to the boulder told of in the orc journal was easy enough. The elves fanned out, leaving the dwarves and I marching together. We headed towards the side of the pass, the ground rising once again as we headed toward a ravine. It was flanked by two frost-shattered peaks: Mount Pointy and Mount Quite-Steep-On-One-Side-But-More-Like-A-Cliff-On-The-Other-Side. Many boulders littered the ground now, but one stood out: it was huge, with a hole through the middle. It was this that we headed for.

Even slowed by me, Dirrim's estimate of an hour was a good one. As we reached the giant boulder, Findathil posted his archers in a ring about it, making use of lesser boulders as cover. He then joined Dirrim, the dwarves and me before the great rock. "The entrance," he asked. "Is there any sign of it?"

Dirrim held up a finger for silence. He scowled at the base of the boulder, then paced around it, which took a full two minutes. He peered and pressed a few places with one finger, all the while scratching his bearded chin. Then he reached into a cleft, grasped something and twisted. A yard-wide slab suddenly opened up, grating against stone hinges to reveal a narrow passageway.

"How did you spot it?" I asked, impressed.

Dirrim chortled. "See this cleft? It runs at a different angle to those around it. And look at the grain of the rock that makes the doorway – it is different from the rest of the boulder. Plus, these scratches…" he pointed to beside the cleft. "They say _'This isn't a secret entrance, honest'_, in Orcish."

"Very well," said Findathil gravely. "We have our means to attack. Now… to battle!"

My mouth was suddenly very dry. "Um… yes, to battle!" I took a deep breath. Findathil and Dirrim had that expectant look again. "Dirrim, you lead us in. We take all your dwarves. Findathil, I know I wanted your elves to guard the entrance, but we might need some archers down there."

Findathil nodded. "Might I suggest half my force?"

"Sounds good. We get as far as we can undetected, then we, I dunno, kill lots of orcs and get out."

"I only hope we don't forget such a complex strategy," commented Findathil drily.

Dirrim drew his axe and pushed through the doorway. I followed, then the rest of the dwarves. I could hear Findathil giving his orders before following us with the elven contingent.

The passage sloped down steeply, then gave way to rough steps. We were soon in pitch darkness, but Dirrim moved sure-footedly ahead of me, so I kept close to him. We descended for long minutes before the steps stopped and we were entering a wider passage. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, but the wall felt smooth to the touch and the floor was even underfoot.

"This was hewn by dwarves," rumbled Dirrim quietly. "Many of these galleries were dug by my forefathers in better times, before orc and goblin scum infested these mountains."

The dwarves and elves filed out into the passageway, which could hold four abreast quite easily. Findathil pushed through from behind. "Not a trace of orcs. I would hate to return without loosing arrows in anger."

"Hmm," responded Dirrim. "They are near enough, of that I am certain. You shall have your wish. Now, follow me."

I seemed to be the only person who couldn't see a bloody thing, so I kept one hand skimming the wall and tried to move as steadily as I could through the dark. At length a glimmer could be seen ahead: we were approaching a junction, lit by what looked like faint daylight. Sure enough the passage we were in opened out into a huge gallery: we were standing on a broad ledge that served as a roadway and stretched away on either side until it was lost in the gloom. Passages and chambers opened up from it, while stairways connected with similar ledges above and below us. Bridges arched across to the far side of the gallery. Shafts of sunlight speared down from the ceiling, which had the appearance of being the roof of a natural cave. The gallery fell away from us in great terraces for another ten levels at least, with another three above us.

"Wow…" was all I could manage.

"A trifling thing," grunted Dirrim. "One of my people's lesser dwellings."

Our side of the gallery was dark and quiet, the doorways black and still. But across the way, jewel-like twinklings of orange and yellow on the lower levels betrayed the presence of open fires and braziers. I could just about make out darker shapes moving against dark stone.

"There are your orcs, sir elf!" spat Dirrim. "I thought the air was rank!"

"There," whispered Findathil, pointing. "That bridge will take us to a stairway that leads to the upper inhabited levels. But I see two guards."

"You do?" I queried, eyes straining uselessly. "I'll take your word for it. Bring up your best archer, let's get closer and then take them out."

"I AM the best archer," replied Findathil loftily. "Let you and I move nearer. On your word I shall despatch them both."

We scuttled (well, I scuttled, Findathil more sort of flowed effortlessly) closer to where two orcs stood guarding the end of an elegant stone bridge. The plinth of a statue (long since hacked off at the knees) served as cover. I could see the two orcs clearly now, indeed we were close enough to hear them talking. Findathil notched an arrow and made ready to shoot. "On your word…" he whispered.

I held my hand up. There would be an ideal moment, obviously. There always was. But how would I know it?

"_Ach,"_ one of the orcs was saying. _"Vhy do vee alvays guard ZIS bridge, hmm? It ist so BORING being stuck here."_

"Now?" asked Findathil. I shook my head and kept my hand raised.

"_Ja,"_ replied the other guard. _"Klinker vas telling me, he alvays gets to guard der chief's pantry."_

"_Vhat? Vhere all der hot frauleins work? Das ist SO unfair!"_

"What about now?" asked Findathil impatiently.

"No!" I hissed. "It doesn't feel right yet."

The first orc sighed heavily. _"Ach, it makes you vunder vhat zis ist all about, ja? Vhy vee are alvays fighting der Free Peoples?"_

Oh this was promising….

"_Ja,"_ came the reply. _"How I long to be mit mein kleine Grunchen again, holding hands in das slime pit vhere vee first met…."_

"Now!" I dropped my hand sharply. Almost impossibly quickly, two arrows whistled past my ear and thudded home. Both guards crumpled without a word.

Findathil gestured for Dirrim to lead the rest of the force over. "Why did make me wait?" he asked.

"Unwritten law of killing sentries: wait for them to reminisce about girlfriends." The elf just shook his head.

A vague recollection of some war film or other prompted me to leave about half the archers on the near side of the gallery. The rest of us filed swiftly across the bridge, me staying as near the middle as possible and wondering why neither dwarves nor orcs had got round to designing handrails. Once across. it was a short distance along the ledge to where a staircase had been cut into the rock, zigzagging down to the next level. So far, so good: no alarm had been raised. We then went down a further level: this was the top-most ledge that we had seen fires lit on: a proper battle was not far off.

"We keep sight of the bridge, ok?" I said in a low voice. "And when I say retreat… sorry, withdraw… then we go, right away, yes?"

Both Dirrim and Findathil nodded. "Of course!" said the elf. "You are the leader of this venture."

We crept along the ledge, towards where the fires flickered. The sounds of an orc settlement started to reach us: the clanking of metal, the creaking of shoddy joinery, argumentative voices and the occasional shriek. A guard emerged from one of the dark doorways that lined the ledge: a single arrow from one of the elves silenced him before he had time to react. I peered into the room he had come from, but there was nothing in it other than a foul stench – it appeared to be being used as a latrine.

We moved ahead, the tension rising. The nearest brazier was about fifty yards away now, a knot of orcs milling around it. The chambers near it flickered with torch light, with shadows telling of orcs within them. Suddenly a challenging cry stopped us in our tracks.

"_HALT! Who goes zhere?"_ We instinctively pressed ourselves to the wall.

"_Who goes there? I only passed this was an hour ago and you asked me that then!" _We realised that the conversation was being held on the next ledge down.

"_Halt! Who goes zhere?"_ repeated the first voice.

"_Oh have it your way… it's Pinkle and Perkle, Plundermasters to the Chief, bringing Plunder to the Plunder Room."_

"_Ach… das ist alright, zen. Proceed."_

Dirrim's eyes widened. "Plunder? Did he say plunder?" He and I crept to the edge and risked a look over it: below us stood a lone orc sentry. Creaking away from us, heading off to our left as we looked, was a large, ramshackle cart being pulled slowly by a troll. Two diminutive figures sat up at the front.

"If we follow that cart we will come upon the chief's hoard!" exclaimed Dirrim excitedly.

"We are not here to seek treasure!" cautioned Findathil.

"Perhaps not, but what better way of showing our strength, our boldness? Is that not the reason for this attack?" countered the dwarf.

"I've got to admit, that DOES sound a good argument," I chipped in, getting far too carried away by Dirrim's enthusiasm.

"We know not where the cart is headed," insisted Findathil. "It may travel far along this roadway and lure us too far among the orcs."

Dirrim was about to argue but thought twice. "Hmmm. It pains me, but you are right. We cannot fight our way out from too deep. Much as I would love to liberate the treasures these scum have taken from their victims, the cart may indeed travel far yet."

"Oh, no, you're ok, its stopping, look," I interrupted. The cart had halted and the two goblins had hopped off and were unlocking a door.

FIndathil rolled his eyes. "Oh… very well… I suppose…." He notched an arrow, leant over the ledge and killed the orc sentry, more in exasperation than anything else.

We agreed that the three of us plus three of Dirrim's dwarves would raid the Plunder Room. We crept across to the next set of stairs down, careful not to attract the attention of the orcs ahead. We descended quickly, swords and axes at the ready. The two goblins had disappeared from sight, leaving the door open. The troll was slumped on its haunches, snoring so loudly that we stopped worrying about trying to move quietly.

Dirrim led the way. We sneaked past the cart and through the double doors. Within was a wide passageway, with chambers leading from it. We could hear the goblins down in a room at the far end of the passage, clattering around and talking noisily.

"…_so, obviously, you've got to allow for social class, Perkle. I mean orcs have an unfair advantage, that's a given. But, you know, the lines are blurring, and I reckon there're prospects for the ambitious goblin, these days."_

"_Ambitious goblin, yes."_

"_I mean, you have to play the game, sure. I'm learning Orc: you only go so far talking in Common. I mean Common is useful for scaring people in their own language before you eat 'em, but it's talking Orc that gets you respect down 'ere."_

"_Respect, yes."_

There was more clattering and the goblins moved out of earshot.

We ducked into the first chamber on the left. It was piled untidily with all manner of booty: armour, swords, crates and chests, with loose piles of coins strewn around. The dwarves' eyes lit up as they spied a fairly impressive heap of gold coins. Dirrim gestured and the three accompanying dwarves started scooping gold into sacks that had previously held breakfast. Findathil was drawn to a long, narrow chest in one corner. He was about to open it when the voices of the goblins rose outside in the passage.

"… _I mean HOBGOBLIN, what's that all about? Make yer mind up, I say… yer a goblin or yer an orc. But no, he swans in like he's something special and says 'that's Bulog the Hobgoblin to you, wretch'… pretentious tosser."_

"_Pretentious tosser, yes."_

The next observation was lost as the voices disappeared into another chamber.

"Come on," I urged, getting nervous. "Let's get a move on!"

"One moment," insisted Findathil. "This is a sword case of some quality." He opened the lid: inside were three swords which, even to my untrained eye, looked pretty special.

Dirrim, having helped himself to some rather fine unset gemstones, joined us and let out a gasp.

"This is indeed a find! " He reached in and took out a short sword. "These are blades of the highest quality!"

"Are they magical?" I asked, though I had a vague idea they should be glowing or something.

Findathil shook his head. "These are not elven blades. These are the work of our dwarven friends… at a time when dwarves and elves truly were friends. They are not magical, but such was the smith's skill that the blades are strong, incorruptible and have edges of rare sharpness. They will cleave most armour." He lifted out two long swords, and passed one to me.

"They are named!" exclaimed Dirrim, squinting at the runes inscribed. "This is Karad… also known as the Fierce Blade. I claim it for myself."

Findathil looked at the sword he was holding. "This is inscribed in both Dwarfish and Quenya: it is Gazakil, also known as the Death Cleaver. I shall bear this blade with honour."

"And mine, and mine?" I asked, holding the sword up to Dirrim. He peered at it. "Well… let me say it is a fine blade. A very fine blade."

"Yes, yes, go on…?"

He looked apologetic. "Truth be told, it is not made by the same smith. An apprentice, perhaps, seeking to learn by emulating these two magnificent examples… it is named Kaevyn. "

"Kevin?" I queried in disbelief. "I've ended up with a homework project called KEVIN? Isn't it known as anything else?"

"Oh, yes," assured Dirrim. "I'm not sure it will translate directly though…"

"Try," I glowered.

He sighed. "A word that implies sharpness, but not as sharp as the very best."

At that moment the goblins' voices became audible again.

"… _the trouble is, your chances are limited here. There's the Boss, a few chiefs, the goblin king… but you know, not much scope for progression. Now, way I hear it, there's much more going on over in Mordor. All sorts of towers that need Captains, and so on."_

"_Captains, yes."_

"_And with their Big Boss being, you know, just an eye, well he's bound to need help, yes? I hear there's a Mouth of Sauron, for starters. Well, maybe he'll want, I dunno, a Nose of Sauron, or something? I could do that. Highly attuned, my sense of smell."_

"_Highly attuned, yes." _

"_Course, you need the Black Speech for that, and that's tricky. Lot of irregular verbs and it quite hurts your throat I'm told…."_

Again, they disappeared into a different chamber, where they started to drag something across the floor.

"Right, that's it, we go now," I insisted, grabbing a handful of amulets on gold chains and heading for the door. The dwarves had no capacity left to carry more loot, so there was no argument: they tottered after me, Findathil bringing up the rear.

Dirrim poked his head around the doorway. There was no sign of the goblins: we quickly exited the room and crept out of the main doorway, careful not to wake up the snoring troll. However, we had not gone more than ten paces past the cart before the sound of that bloody goblin's voice emerged behind us.

"… _oh yes, Perkle, olog-hai are definitely half-orc, half-troll, mark my words. Remember Tartti the Easy? Well, story is she went to this troll party where there was lots of stolen grog and apparently… oy! You! What are YOU lot doing here?"_

"Bugger!" I cursed. "We've been rumbled! Move it!"

The gobby goblin was shouting the house down behind us as we hurried to the stair. The troll woke with a surprised grunt. The rest of the settlement reacted with un-nerving speed. Random orc jabbering turned to angry snarling and hissing. The shadows were suddenly full of spite.

As we reached the steps I physically pushed the rearmost dwarf up them. Findathil brought up the rear, arrow notched, watchful. Prompted by the goblin, the troll was turning around to pursue us: unfortunately it had forgotten about the cart it was yoked to. As the troll turned, the cart swung out over the edge, the rear wheels sliding over. The troll, looking confused, straightened up, teetered, and then was dragged backwards off the ledge by the falling cart. From the shrieks below, it evidently landed on a number of orcs.

By the time we reached the ledge above, the main part of our force was locked in combat with the orcs there. With a roar, Dirrim leapt into the fray with his new sword: the three other dwarves carefully set down their sacks of gold and joined him. Findathil remained at the top of the steps, picking off orcs below us before they could mount an attack. Taking a deep breath, I weighed in with my newly-liberated sword, decapitating an orc that was about to take a swing at one of the elves.

The elven archers I had left on the other side of the gallery were thinning out orc reinforcements before they could even reach the action. We drove our foes back along the ledge with some ease.

"The plan goes well!" bellowed Dirrim. "What are your wishes?"

I looked around. There was no sign of any orcs threatening our route back to the bridge. The orcs ahead were dying by the dozen, while those on lower levels were falling to elven arrows, lying in heaps around the bottom of various stairways. "Attack!" I ordered, "Attack, attack!"

My troops didn't need much encouragement. They were attacking rather than defending for once, and enjoying it. As we pressed on beyond the blazing braziers, a few elves hung back, set their arrows alight from them and shot into the ramshackle wooden bridges and walkways that the orcs had strung across the lower levels. A dwarf picked up one brazier in his gauntleted hands and flung it onto a timber platform perched on the edge of the next ledge down. Soon the glow of rapidly spreading fires was adding to the filtered sunlight from above.

Findathil grabbed my shoulder and pointed across the gallery. Orcs had crossed at the lower levels and were now swarming up towards where just ten elves protected our means of escape.

"Pull your elves back from the fighting," I said. "They need to get shooting across at those damn orcs." Findathil nodded: within a few seconds, every elf in our party was aiming across the gallery, supporting those on the far side as they were supporting us.

"Dirrim!" I yelled. "Time to fall back!" The dwarf leader shot me a withering look but relayed the order. We had suffered a few losses: it was time to get out while the getting out was good.

The elves led us back up to the level of the bridge. Then came the dwarves, having made sure they took the gold with them, with Dirrim, Findathil and I bringing up the rear. Quickly as we moved, however, the orcs were quicker: the terraces on the far side of the gallery were swarming with them, many scaling the walls directly rather than funnel onto the stairways.

"Hurry up or we'll get cut off!" I urged. We rushed across the bridge

By now orc archers had us in their sights: a dwarf near me gave a strangled cry and pitched over the edge of the bridge. Our elves shot back with uncanny accuracy as they ran, but all the same it was all getting a bit too interesting. The first elves reached the end of the bridge at about the same time as the counter-attacking orcs reached the ledge. Elven blades flashed in the gloom as the first score of orcs fell. Then the first of the dwarves reached the fray and expanded the bridgehead further.

The last three of us were still making a fighting retreat along the bridge. Well, I say fighting retreat: Dirrim and I basically shuffled backwards while Findathil's arrows dealt with the decreasing number of orcs who were keen to rush at us. Then a warning cry made me turn: a number of orcs had managed to scale the bridge from below, and now blocked our path.

"Time to get off this bridge!" I observed. The fires flared up, casting a sudden brighter glow on the battle.

"Aye, and time these blades drank again!" roared Dirrim. Findathil shouldered his bow and drew his sword. The three of us cut our way closer to the safety of the far side, the three ancient dwarf swords being wielded in battle once more: Karad, the Fierce Blade; Gazakil, the Death Cleaver… and Kevin, the Quite Pointy. They were indeed marvellous weapons: even Kevin broke orc blades in two when I parried, and glided through armour, sinew and bone when I struck.

We reached the far end of the bridge and joined the rest of our force in fighting toward the passage we had first emerged from. There was a sudden noise like rolling thunder, and the fires flared again. Only… was it the fires? The sound came again, and the orcs shrank away from us.

I looked right, and my mouth dropped open: striding past the burning walkways and over the trail of orc bodies was a huge figure that seemed made of smoke and fire, its demonic face twisted by evil fury. It opened its mouth to bellow once more, revealing innards that glowed red hot. Behind it trailled darkness, and what might have been wings. Or might not have been. Hard to tell.

The giant creature ascended the terraced slopes with ease as it advanced, until it was on the same level as us. The orcs scurried away back down the sheer side of the gallery or into the nearest doorways.

"Durin's Bane!" gasped Dirrim. "A balrog!" exclaimed Findathil. Both looked to me and spoke as one. "Your orders?"

I gulped, looked around at our noble company, and then back at the balrog. It was brandishing a sword of fire that was the size of a tree. I cleared my throat.

"Run away! Run away, run away, RUN AWAY!"

To a dwarf and elf, the order was carried out enthusiastically. We sprinted back to the entrance of the passageway and on into the darkness that hid the narrow tunnel we had descended down. Once there, progress was halted as we bunched at the bottom of the steps, which were only wide enough for single file. The bellowing came nearer and the darkness behind us was lit up by flame.

"Any time now would be good, guys!" I said, backing away at the agonisingly slow pace of the rest of the crowd of soldiers. I kept Kevin the Moderately Sharp drawn, but realised that was probably quite an optimistic gesture.

The ground shook and sparks flew from down the passageway as the balrog smote the walls in frustration at having to squeeze slowly after us. I kept backing away until a hand on my shoulder pulled me onto the first step. "Time we departed!" commented Findathil.

Never have I run up stairs so quickly. I guessed a balrog would have no chance of pursuing us up such a low, narrow tunnel, but that didn't lessen the panic of pursuit of some kind. What seemed an eternity later, I forced my protesting legs to one last effort and stumbled out into broad daylight.

"Bloody hell!" I gasped, leaning on my sword while the strength returned to my shaking legs. "I mean… did you see the size of that bugger?"

Findathil issued orders to his elves. The guarding perimeter tightened, and I noticed looks of uncertainty pass between the elves.

"We must leave this place, quickly," stated Findathil, his tone grave.

"Oh give me a minute!" I implored. "Anyway, we're in broad daylight, we have hours left."

"Orcs may shun daylight, but balrogs need not," informed Findathil.

"Well, no balrog is ascending these stairs, I tell you!" replied Dirrim, looking back at the secret passageway entrance. No sooner had he spoken than the bellowing noise came again… but not from the passageway: from somewhere up the ravine. I looked up in alarm and saw a distant smudge of black smoke rising in the distance.

"I think the front door is quite big enough for him…." Commented Findathil.

I groaned. "Oh I do NOT need this… right we retreat – sorry, withdraw VERY quickly – to the glades. Maybe the balrog will lose interest if it can't see us."

"Hmm, I'm not so sure," warned Dirrim. "But we will never make it home if it chooses to pursue us. And nor should we lead it back there."

"We're decided then: elves to the rear, and keep those bows ready," I pointed my sword towards the Glades of Certain Death, which right now seemed to have an exceptionally unfortunate name. "Let's go!"

I was tired, but it's amazing the adrenaline kick you get when being pursued by a fiery demon the size of an office block. Our force – which still numbered over 70 strong – set off across the pass at a fast jog.

We had been going for 15 or 20 minutes when there came a cry from the rear: I looked around. The elves had spotted the balrog: it had emerged from the ravine and strode over to the large boulder. It looked no less terrifying from a distance, framed as it was in a pall of smoke that reflected its menacing fiery glow. As I stared, the beast looked directly at us and roared.

"Ok, let's withdraw a bit faster!" I suggested. Nobody needed convincing.

It was like one of those horrible nightmares. Assuming you have nightmares where you're running uphill, weighted down by armour while a giant demonic manifestation of pure evil is gaining on you. For gaining it was: fast as we went, each of its giant strides narrowed the gap a little. I was only thankful that it wasn't using it wings. Assuming it had any.

Finally, with every sinew of my body screaming PLEASE STOP and every neuron in my brain screaming DON'T LISTEN TO THOSE STUPID BLOODY SINEWS KEEP GOING, we reached the edge of the glades. The balrog was close behind: I could feel the ground shake with each of its steps.

"If it follows, we are lost," panted Dirrim.

"All we can do is try and hide," advised Findathil.

"Get deep into the trees!" I shouted. "We have more of a chance where the woodland is thickest!" At which point I ran straight into Sandra , bouncing off her and onto the floor. We had run into the entwives' clearing, and they were all awake.

"Haway, man, mind where yers ganning!" chided Sandra.

"Not now!" I panted, struggling to my feet. "Must… hide…."

"Eee, somethin's up!" surmised Sandra. The rest of the entwives gathered around in concern. Completely blocking our path.

"No you don't understand!" I said, panicking. "We've got to keep running! There's a…." At this point the balrog crashed into the clearing, pushing aside two trees. Which sort of made the rest of sentence superfluous.

"Eee, he's knocked over Trevor and Dave!" exclaimed Holly. The entwives rustled angrily and got out of our way, forming in a tight knot behind Sandra.

"Run!" I urged the rest of our force. "Split up and flee, it can't follow all of us." My mind was saying 'classic action film error' even as I uttered the words, but I didn't see much choice.

"You are our leader, I cannot leave you!" argued Findathil.

At that moment, the balrog roared and aimed a mighty blow at Findathil with its blazing sword, missing him by inches and scouring a smouldering trench in the ground.

"Actually, maybe I can," revised Findathil, backing away rapidly. "May fate smile on you! More than it is doing at present, certainly…."

As my raiding force scattered in all directions, the balrog stepped forward, bellowing once more.

"Ey, yous!" snarled Sandra, unimpressed. "Where yer ganning, like, man? This is wor party and naybody invited yers."

The balrog took another step, bellowed even louder and swung its sword in fury. The fiery blade cleaved through the rock from which the entdraught spring bubbled, shattering it into pieces. As the smoke cleared it was evident the spring had stopped.

A look came over Sandra's face that made even the balrog step back. The voice that came from her was suddenly one of utter fury.

"Did… you… just… spill… my… pint?"

Then, as one, the entwives were upon the demon. Mighty as it was, the combined strength of an angrily hungover forest was too much: it toppled backwards, its sword spinning from its grasp. A few of the entwives' leafs burned, some twigs were singed, but the balrog's fieriness had little effect on their thick bark.

What followed – even bearing in mind it was inflicted on one of the baddest of the bad guys – has since been erased from my memory. A mental defence mechanism I suppose.: some things are just not mean to be witnessed by mortal man. Suffice it to say, I never expected to ever hear a balrog yelp.

"Haway, man, Sandra, pet, man," said Maplegreen in a placating tone. "He's nay worth it. Jus' walk away, pet, walk away."

"Aye, well, I'm a reasonable entwife, mind, but…." Sandra let herself be led away from the clearing by the other entwives, leaving me alone with the piteously groaning balrog. Not being sure how badly wounded it was, I staggered away as best as my aching legs would allow me, back the way we had came earlier that morning. I hoped.

* * *

"_Vhat business have YOU here, goblins?"_ demanded the orc Chief as Pinkle and Perkle entered the cavernous chamber.

"_Pinkle and Perkle here, sir, official Clan Healers."_

"_Healers, yes."_

The hulking orc grunted. _"Ach, so… ja, the last Healer vas killed by ein falling troll… vell, get to vork, der Boss ist in agony!"_

"_Right away, sir!"_

The two goblins scampered over to where the balrog lay prone on a huge slab of rock, making a variety of discomfited sounds. Pinkle scaled a rickety stepladder placed between the demon's feet. He peered intently into the balrog's mighty backside.

"_Vhat do you prescribe, Healer?"_ demanded the Chief.

"_Hmmm… block and tackle, I'd say." _The goblin looked down at his colleague. "_I know ents are strong but Morgoth knows how she rammed a boulder THAT far up…."_


End file.
